


Office Space

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Ministry Work, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-05
Updated: 2007-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all in a day's work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/gifts).



> Written for [](http://tarie.livejournal.com/profile)[**tarie**](http://tarie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://merry_smutmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**merry_smutmas**](http://merry_smutmas.livejournal.com/) 2006.

"Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, The International Magical Office of Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats."

The lift jerked to a halt, and the grille jangled open. A squat, elderly witch bustled out, armed with a dented cauldron and an over-large handbag. Her pointed hat was a faded, charcoal grey, and it sat crookedly on what Ron suspected was a rather bad wig. As she disappeared down the hallway, Ron caught a glimpse of ancient wood panelling, a badly-hung poster detailing the odd things used for wand cores in different countries, and a world atlas stuck with multi-coloured push-pins. A paper aeroplane darted inside at the last moment, sneaking between the slats of the grille just as the lift lurched upward. It was pale violet and it circled Ron's head like a vulture waiting for its prey to drop dead.

Ron sighed. He was tempted to oblige it.

"Level four. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and the Pest Advisory Bureau."

"Well, this is me," Ron mumbled. The aeroplane flapped in reply, wings quivering. It made one more circuit above his head before escaping the lift and zooming away to the right.

Off the lift, Ron was greeted by more wood panelling and tan carpet that was balding along the beaten path. He smoothed the front of his robes and tugged irritably at his collar. He hadn't worn dress robes in years. He hadn't worn any kind of robes since his sixth year at Hogwarts. In the last six months, he hadn't got off his couch if it wasn't absolutely necessary, and in his opinion, shuffling between the kitchen and the loo didn't really warrant trousers. This set was deep blue, brand new -- purchased just yesterday, and he'd gone by himself, thank you very much, since the whole Yule Ball catastrophe proved his mother couldn't be trusted to dress a kneazle -- and plain. He'd managed to talk Madam Malkin out of the ruffles, ribbons, and lace that mad women seemed to be so fond of, but she apparently hadn't been listening when he'd said he wanted something comfortable.

The directory on the wall was bright blue, and the flashing white letters informed him that he needed to go left, which was fine by him, because the Pest Advisory Bureau was to the right. He secretly wished that paper aeroplane the best of luck. He wasn't sure what Pest Advisory did -- his dad would rabbit on about the Ministry until he was blue in the face, but there were three things he didn't talk about: the Department of Mysteries, the Ludicrous Patents Office, and Pest Advisory -- but Ron figured it was better that way. He could only imagine they dealt with acromantula infestations or bloody giant snakes bent on taking over the world, and there were some things Ron just didn't want to know about.

He went left. He passed through Regulation and Control, which was a long hallway dotted with offices and pictures of different magical creatures. The people inside the offices looked barely awake, bored to tears, or a combination of the two. The pictures were encased in identical black frames and arranged on the wall with the sort of randomness that suggested they were hiding cosmetic damage on the panelling. He stepped wide of a box stuffed with crumpled, still-twitching memos, and avoided a collection of strange, off-coloured stains on the carpet that looked suspiciously like Odin's Wain. The hallway veered suddenly and violently to the right, and Ron followed it until he was confronted with a dead end and a large door marked Goblin Liaison Office.

Behind the door was a short hallway with more offices and a room at the end that looked like a common area where two young women chatted quietly at the coffee pot. The office to his left appeared to be some kind of waiting room -- a handful of goblins sat in undersized chairs with rolls of parchment tucked in their laps. The office to his right belonged to a Eugene Cadawaller, which was who Ron needed to speak to.

He didn't want to do this.

Eugene Cadawaller was tall, thin, and roughly the same age as Stonehenge. He was bald, aside from a strange tuft of white hair that sprouted from the centre of his head like a tail-feather, and his wire-rimmed spectacles clung precariously to the end of his long nose. Parchments and scrolls were piled into two mountains that towered on either side of his desk, and he glared at Ron through the valley between them while Ron was still waffling in the doorway.

"What is it, then?"

"I've an appointment, sir," Ron said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "At nine o'clock."

Cadawaller snorted. "It's seven after."

"Sorry," Ron said. "The lifts--"

"--are not my problem," Cadawaller finished, setting his quill aside. "Well, come closer. My eyes aren't what they once were." Ron walked inside, took two steps toward the desk, and Cadawaller studied him from top to bottom. "I suppose you'd be Weasley's brother," he said, after he catalogued Ron's hair and freckles. "Richard, is it?"

"Ronald." He cleared his throat again and pulled at his collar. "Ron's fine."

"Had a letter from Bill, just last week," Cadawaller said, brandishing a small roll of parchment. There was a gilt perch behind the desk; the spotted owl sleeping on it was probably, in owl-years, as old as Cadawaller. "Says you need a job."

"I do, sir."

"Good man, your brother," Cadawaller continued. "He didn't always work for Gringotts, you know. Came here first. Took an internship with me right out of Hogwarts. He was a good worker, and he got on well with the goblins. Funny creatures, goblins. Don't always know their own heads. But your brother understood them, if you follow me." He laughed, but it was a dry, brittle sound. "I should have kept a closer eye on him. Recruiter from the bank snapped him up when I wasn't looking, and I've not had his like in this office since. So, what do you do?"

"Sorry?"

"What do you _do_ , son?" Cadawaller asked. "Can you file? Answer the floo? Write business correspondence?"

Ron stared at the old man in growing horror. "Business correspondence?"

"Letters, and that. Memos. Can you do a type-setter spell?" Cadawaller paused long enough refuel from a large mug of tea. "I understand your father likes the Muggles. Do you know anything about their blasted copy papering machines? Every time I put a roll of parchment in the tray it tells me I'm making jam."

Ron's mouth opened, but nothing came out. His silence was noted. Cadawaller's eyes narrowed, and in that gesture, Ron pictured another six months at the Burrow, sitting on the couch until his arse threatened to sprout roots while his mum railed at him for being a lay-about. At least they had a telly, now. His father had brought it home after a recent raid. Apparently, misusing Muggle artefacts included charming a telly to show everyone in the nude. Put a whole new spin on the evening news, Ron supposed. His father had reversed the spell before he brought it in the house, which was fine by Ron; there were too many blokes in the afternoon serial for people to be doing it starkers.

"You ever worked in an office before?" Cadawaller asked.

"No, sir," Ron admitted. "This'll be my first job."

Cadawaller paused at that. He set his tea down with a thump, and the elderly owl almost stirred. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Nineteen?" Cadawaller yelped. A portrait of a much younger Cadawaller watched the proceedings from the wall behind the desk; when he caught Ron looking, he returned to shaking hands with a goblin outside the Gringotts in Diagon Alley. "What have you been doing since Hogwarts?"

"Well, sir, there was the war--"

Cadawaller snorted. "Ah yes, the war. Wossname started stirring up trouble, and everyone with more bollocks than sense ran off to be a hero." His tone suggested in Cadawaller-speak, 'hero' meant 'someone who stood outside the Leaky Cauldron and played the harp for spare change'. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and fixed Ron with a level stare. "Are you a hero, son?"

"No, sir," Ron said. His robes were trying to choke him, he was sure of it.

Cadawaller made the sort of noise elderly people favoured when they discovered a cup of tea didn't cost what it had fifty years ago. "How'd you do, then, at school? No trouble? Good marks?"

"No trouble," Ron said. A harmless fib. McGonagall was busy putting Hogwarts back together; she wasn't like to sprout out of the floor and make a liar out of him. "Seven OWLs."

"What about NEWTs?"

Bugger. Nothing for it.

"Dintakthm."

"Sorry. Not sure I caught that," Cadawaller said. "You're not a mumbler, are you? My ears aren't what they once were, either. I can't be having with mumblers."

Ron studied the carpet. It was tan and balding, just like in the hallway. "I didn't take them, sir."

"Why not?"

"The war--"

"The war, again," Cadawaller cut in. "I was around the last time Wossname got uppity. Was around for Grindewald, too. And both times, the kids stayed in school as they should have, and left the messy business to their elders." He seized Bill's letter and wielded it like a sword. "If you're as smart as your brother says you are, why'd you leave school and take up with Potter?"

"Harry's my best friend, sir," Ron said.

Cadawaller sat up, sucking in a sharp breath, and Ron belatedly remembered where he was. Public opinion of Harry was favourable, but since Voldemort's death -- and he could say the name now, because he'd watched him die -- had in some ways, resulted in Scrimgeour's resignation, Ministry opinion of Harry was divided.

"Harry's my best friend," Ron said again. It was the truth, and Cadawaller could rot if he didn't like it. He could always ask the twins if they needed a box-boy. "Has been, since our first year at Hogwarts." Gormless bastards would probably try to pay him two knuts an hour, and he'd likely spend random intervals as a canary. "When Dumbledore died, he left school. He said he wanted to put an end to it, and I went with him."

Cadawaller considered this for a moment. "Would you do it again?" he asked finally. "If you had to do it over, would you do the same?"

He'd get some exercise, working as a box-boy, and that certainly wouldn't kill him. He'd gained about a stone since the war ended.

"Yes."

"End of the hall, last door on your right," Cadawaller said. "It's small, but you have a desk and your own head-only floo. And I want you in at nine, not seven after. If the lifts are acting up, you can take the stairs."

"Yes, sir," Ron said. "Thank you, sir."

"Fiona can show you the type-setter spell when she gets a moment," Cadawaller continued, waving Ron out the door. "Until then, see if you can't catch up on some of the filing. Not much to filing, if you stayed in Hogwarts long enough to learn the alphabet. And have a look at that copy papering machine. When I want jam, I'll talk to my wife, not some bucket of bolts."

 

\---

 

Ron's office wasn't quite an office. It only pretended to be an office, when in all actuality, it was Eugene Cadawaller's box room. It was airless, windowless, and approximately the size of a Hogwarts four-poster. Aside from a few instances of damp, the walls and ceiling were the same tan as the carpet, and boxes full of all sorts of rubbish were stacked like children's blocks in most of the available space. And Ron's desk wasn't properly a desk. It was a table. It lacked drawers, forcing Ron to keep his things in yet another box on which he constantly stubbed his toe. It also had a short leg, which politely ignored Ron's full catalogue of repair and maintenance spells. On his third day -- after the sixth time a sudden change in the table's centre of gravity spilled tea all over his filing -- Ron gave up and evened things out with an ancient copy of _Local Ordinances for Goblin Behaviour (with Appendices)_.

He blamed Voldemort, really.

Picked an inconvenient time for his war, Voldemort had. Decided to have his messy confrontation with Harry when Ron was meant to be in school. Had to hide little bits of his soul everywhere, so Ron spent what should have been his seventh year following Harry all over the British countryside. The south of England, as it turned out, was as boggy and wet as the north of Scotland, only with more humidity. Not that Ron had cared either way about school -- he wasn't Hermione, or anything -- and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. And he'd told Cadawaller the truth; he'd do the same again. It's not like he'd have left Harry to faff about on his own.

Of course, if he had to do the war over again, he would reschedule things a bit, so he could sit his NEWTs.

He hadn't planned on a six-month sentence on his mum's couch. He'd planned on getting a job. They had talked about it sometimes, right before the end, during that sliver of peace that came before things really got bad -- when it was just the three of them, bunked down in the crumbling husk of Harry's parents' house at Godrics Hollow, not really sleeping, and eating whatever could be transfigured into food. Harry had been thin back then, even thinner than he was when Ron met him on the Hogwarts Express, and the circles under Hermione's eyes had been so dark and wide Ron had worried they'd swallow her whole. On the long nights, through the strained black stretches that brought a sudden silence that left them afraid to close their eyes, they had curled together around a jar of bluebell flames and talked about what they wanted to do _after_.

Ron had fancied being an Auror, but he wasn't Harry Potter -- Moody managed to convince the admissions board that killing Voldemort qualified as independent study -- and without NEWTs in the seven required subjects, Ron's application had been denied. He'd thought about joining Charlie in Romania, but the Dragon Reserve wanted NEWTs in Charms, Transfigurations, and Defence. He got the same story from Bill when he mentioned Gringotts; Bill had pointed him to Cadawaller instead, because the bank wasn't going to consider him without NEWTs. Gringotts was a wash anyway, since they wanted NEWTS in classes he never took: Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and -- of all things -- Muggle Studies, but the point remained.

 _After_ was never meant to include _this_.

Cadawaller was Ron's boss, in that Cadawaller arrived at Ron's table-desk before his first cup of tea kicked in and turned over a veritable mire of parchments, scrolls, forms, and the occasional picture into his custody. The upside was that Cadawaller didn't much care what Ron did with the paperwork, as long as Ron got it well out of his sight, and after that initial, early-morning exchange of all-right-there's and carry-on-then's, Cadawaller usually retreated to his office and wasn't seen again until it was time to head home. There was a downside, of course; if Cadawaller needed any of that paperwork, at any time or for any reason, he expected Ron to produce it with all haste. After two weeks, Ron had mastered the art of making paperwork disappear. Making it reappear was another story entirely, and really, _Accio_ boiled down to luck, particularly when it came to forms.

This morning's paper-dump was mostly sheets of parchment, for which Ron was grateful. Forms were the easiest, because they didn't have to be rolled or folded in any way, but parchment was better than scrolls. Scrolls liked to open themselves randomly, scrolls usually had to be shrunk, and more often than not, they were too fat to properly fit inside a folder. There was a lot of parchment, though. A lot. More than Ron could possibly carry in his arms. Sighing, he grabbed the closest box -- which already held a couple of books, but empty boxes were quickly becoming a commodity -- dumped all the parchments inside it, and treated it to a healthy dose of Wingardium Leviosa.

Levi-oh- _sah_ , he thought. Eight years later, he could still hear Hermione correcting his pronunciation whenever he used that spell.

The topmost parchment was for a Griphook. Ron took a deep breath and opened the drawer marked G.

The first problem with goblins was that they didn't have surnames. The second problem with goblins was that goblin-parents weren't very inventive when it came to naming their children, in general. From what Ron could tell, every goblin in the Wizarding world had one of eleven names -- six for males and five for females -- so beyond that, Ron had to sort the paperwork inside the eleven names by Goblin Identification Number. The third problem had less to do with goblins and more to do with the office. The filing cabinets were in such a state that Ron spent more time fixing the mess he inherited than adding to it. Whoever had previously been assigned to the filing had used an alphabet that was wholly their own.

"Griphook," Ron said. "Griphook, Griphook, Griphook." G was a popular letter, as it also included Gormlach and Gutrund. Griphook should have been somewhere in the middle, according to the laws of nature and common sense, but in this office, all bets were off. "Griphook. 6X33-F590:21."

The door creaked like someone was hanging on the handle. He smelled blueberry scones and too much jasmine perfume. "Morning, Fiona," he said, without bothering to look.

"Hallo, Ronnie." He heard footsteps, which stopped in the general vicinity of his desk, and the sound of paper being shuffled about.

"It's in my box," Ron offered. For some reason, the Goblin Liaison Office only had two staplers; one for Cadawaller, and one for everyone else.

"Ta," she replied. "If I don't bring it back, come get it."

"Griphook," he muttered, as she let herself out. Between Griphook 4F98-H422:88 and Griphook 5C29-D234:00 was a folder marked Aomlerd. Sighing, Ron freed it from its unalphabetical prison and tossed it on top of the cabinet for A-F. "Bloody Hell. Where've you gone off to, then?"

"I've heard that talking to yourself is one of the first signs of madness."

Ron turned. Harry's head was sitting on his desk, inside a half-hearted swirl of green flames. "Sod off." Ron abandoned Griphook's parchment to its own devices inside the box of unsorted-paperwork-doom, and sunk into his chair. "Where've _you_ gone off to, then?"

"Aberdeen," Harry said, and Ron tried not to squint at him. He hated head-only floos; they made a person look a third their normal size. Ron always felt like he was talking to one of the shrunken heads in Trelawney's classroom, only it was trapped inside a lantern. "We found Macnair."

"Bastard," Ron snapped. He had good reason to hate Macnair. "Where?"

"Muggle church," Harry said, rolling his tiny eyes. "Original, that." Voldemort had hidden one of his horcruxes in a Muggle church, the church where his father had been christened. "He's been telling the priests he's a political refugee."

Ron sipped his tea. It was cold, and he tapped his mug with his wand. "You lot planning something big?"

"Nah. It's just me and Shacklebolt," Harry replied. "I figure the two of us can get it sorted quietly. If my whole squad comes up, someone might notice. We'll have to call in the Obliviators and Muggle-Worthy Excuse, and I'll have to do three hours of paperwork to send him to his fifteen-minute trial."

"Yeah," Ron said. Fifteen minutes was pushing it. Scrimgeour's replacement, Hortence Ploughshot, had little patience for leftover Death Eaters. With one exception -- an exception that had required testimony from Harry and a posthumous letter of exoneration from Dumbledore -- anyone found with a Dark Mark could expect to be shipped off to the North Sea before they had time to pack a bag. "You talk to Neville?"

Harry wobbled in a way that suggested that over in Aberdeen, he was shaking his head. "His floo's closed. Down with the plants, I guess." Neville worked at St Mungos, in the greenhouses that supplied its apothecary. "If you talk to him, I'll be back Friday, latest."

"And by 'if you talk to him', you mean 'floo him immediately'." Ron leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the box that moonlighted as his desk-drawer.

"He usually finds his way back to his office by noon," Harry said, smiling. "And I was thinking--"

"--careful with that--"

"--wanker." Harry laughed. "How about the Broomsticks on Sunday?"

"Yeah, all right," Ron said. With this job, he could do with a drink. If he had an actual desk with actual drawers, he'd be tempted to bring a bottle to work.

Harry paused. "Um," he said uncertainly, "you mind if I invite Hermione?"

Ron retreated behind his tea. "No."

"Ron."

"No really. It's fine."

" _Ron_."

"Weasley?"

"That's Cadawaller," Ron said, sitting up straight. "I gotta go."

"All right," Harry said. "See you Saturday."

"Weasley? Come look at this copy papering machine, will you? It says it doesn't like my tone, and bugger if I know why. I haven't said a word to it!"

 

\---

 

Ron was on his fourth cup of tea, and it was barely elevensies.

It was Friday, and the Goblin Liaison Office was quiet. They didn't take petitions or firecalls on Friday, which meant the waiting room at the end of the hall was blessedly goblin-free, and Ron didn't have to entertain a string of green, undersized heads while he was trying to get some work done. Cadawaller had disappeared shortly before ten -- a development his co-workers seemed to find distressing: most days, Cadawaller gave the impression he wouldn't leave his office before time if the Ministry was on fire -- under the ominous threat of 'having to sort something out with the bastards down the hall'. Ron figured Cadawaller meant Regulation and Control, but he didn't know what Cadawaller had been on about. He did know Cadawaller had left in as close to a strop as a man his age could get; Ron almost felt bad for whoever would be on the receiving end of it.

The silence felt strange and thick. The only sound was the muted click and whir of the much abused and malagined photocopier, and the soft buzz of Ron's co-workers chatting in the kitchen. His eyes seemed heavy, four cups of tea or not. He set his teacup aside, and leaned back in his chair. He could rest for a moment. The filing was caught up -- or, as caught up as was humanly possible in this place. Cadawaller could be gone for hours, and when did come back, he'd probably go straight to his office.

Ron's thoughts drifted to Harry. He wondered how things had turned out in Aberdeen, and if they'd managed to deal with Macnair.

The second attack on Hogwarts had come right before Voldemort died, and it played out similar to the first. It had been a disorganised coup orchestrated by someone on the inside -- Ron blamed Pansy Parkinson to this day, though she was no longer alive to argue her case -- and Voldemort had failed to put in an appearance. A few dementors had, which showed whoever was in charge had given the whole mess more than six minutes of thought, but it was only an excuse to make things go off bang. It was bait, an attempt to distract Harry from his plans and lure him out in the open.

Harry had received the insta-message spell from McGonagall thirty minutes before he pulled Voldemort's fifth horcrux out of the corpse of Merope Gaunt, and he simply closed his eyes. It was the locket, the locket Regulus Black had tried to steal for himself, and Harry had curled it in his fist until it sliced the palm of his hand. When the spell came again, McGonagall's voice was hoarse and desperate. A boggy Muggle graveyard in the south of London had echoed with the sound of Ginny screaming, and over and over, Harry muttered _this wasn't supposed to happen, this is why I left her behind_ in a way that said he needed Ron to believe it.

The locket had been the only horcrux Harry didn't destroy himself. Ron did it, with Harry's head tucked under his chin and Hermione's fingers cold against his wrist, because Harry's hands were shaking so badly he couldn't hold his wand.

The Order arrived at Hogwarts in time to turn the tide, but too late to stop Ginny from running into Macnair on the stairs. When they found her, crumpled in a heap at the foot of the North Tower, she was missing all the bones on the right side of her body. The bones grew back over the course of a week, but the nerve damage was so extensive she had to learn how to walk again.

Ron's eyes fluttered open, and yawning, he unlocked the shutter on his head-only floo. It hissed softly at the pinch of powder he tossed in, and the ashes in the bottom stirred a the slight whisper of green flames. Friday or not, he wanted to be available, in case Harry called. In case Harry needed him, he thought sleepily. That was ridiculous, of course; Harry had killed Voldemort, and after that, there wasn't much to a misplaced Death Eater. They weren't eleven, any more. Harry was a fully-trained Auror. Harry was with Shacklebolt, and Ron learned first-hand during the war that Shacklebolt was the sort of fellow you wanted on your side.

If Ron was being honest, he'd admit he wanted Harry to need him. But right now, Ron wasn't trying to be honest. He was trying to have a quick kip before Cadawaller came back.

"Weasley?"

No such luck.

"Yes, sir," Ron said. He sat up straight and tried to look awake.

"What about the copy papering machine, then?" Cadawaller asked.

"It's fine, sir," Ron said. "I think it just wants to be left alone."

"Right," Cadawaller said. He glanced around the office from where he'd perched along the door jamb like he expected something to pop out at him. "I suppose I might, at that. Blasted thing's more trouble than it's worth."

"Why do you have it?" Ron asked. He realised he was dangerously close to engaging Cadawaller in conversation, but he couldn't help but wonder. It was a Muggle machine, in a Ministry office. Many wizards considered their ignorance of Muggles a point of pride, and no one could accuse the Ministry of being technologically advanced.

"Myrtle brought it in," Cadawaller said, invoking the name of Fiona's aider, abetter, and general accomplice. "She has a Squib brother, works in a Muggle office." He pulled away from the door jamb to take a sip from his trusty green, oversized mug. Ron wondered if he'd taken it down the hall with him, when he went to sort out whatever it was that had needed sorting. "How are you about change?"

"Sorry?"

"Change," Cadawaller repeated. "Are you adaptable, or are you one of those fellows that goes round the twist? Like that one bloke from the Owl Post Office, who went into work one day and started shooting off his wand at anything that moved?"

"Bloody Hell," Ron said, his stomach sinking into the floor. "I'm getting sacked."

Cadawaller sighed. "You're not getting sacked," he said shortly. "You're useful enough. You don't quite have your brother's gift, but you do all right. And you certainly make that blasted paper disappear. I was telling my brother, Elmer -- he's upstairs with the Trading Standards Body -- that you must be burning it, the way you put paid to it so fast."

Ron smiled thinly and tucked his wand in his lap.

"What do we do here?" Cadawaller asked suddenly.

"Um," Ron floundered. Since he arrived this morning, he talked to Neville on the floo, return-owled the envelope of Niffler dung the twins had sent him-- postage due, of course, and flipped through an elderly copy of Witch Weekly he found in the loo. He also had a sharp talk with the potted palm in the kitchen because really, it had no business goosing him that way, and Fiona tried to teach him to juggle with some of the scones the Ministry provided for breakfast. "Goblin petitions?"

"Right," Cadawaller said. "Goblin petitions. But do you know why, son? Do you know the history of this place?"

Ron knew the best answer would be yes, but if there turned out to be a quiz later, he'd certainly fail. He shook his head.

"Ministry's been around a long time, but it wasn't always this big," Cadawaller said, brandishing his wand from somewhere inside his sleeve. It was short and weathered, and it produced a ladder-backed chair similar to those in the goblin waiting room, only properly sized. "Once, it was just a handful of old codgers making up rules about how much ankle a witch could show in public, and what to do when you caught someone else's sprogs playing in your vegetable garden. But once, we didn't need it to be more, you understand?"

Ron didn't have the foggiest, but it seemed safest to nod.

"Take your father's office, for example. Was a time we didn't need it," Cadawaller explained. "Now, we can't move for tripping over Muggle things, what with Squibs faffing off to join their workforce, and London sprouting up around Diagon Alley without so much as a by-your-leave." He snorted, and it was a dry and papery as his laugh. "A hundred years ago, if you married a Muggle, the Ministry snapped your wand. And a hundred years before that, if a Muggle got a letter from Hogwarts, they never saw their relatives again. The Obliviators came and sorted the lot, and the Headmaster found a Wizarding family to take them in until they turned seventeen. As separate as we were then, we didn't need an office to tell us not to Charm motorbikes to fly, and that, but now, with all the intermixing, and the way we're living on top of one another, we do. People run on to their smell-phones and eclectic hair-flyers all the time."

Inside Ron's head, Hermione was shouting. She was saying things like 'prejudice' and 'separatism' and 'antiquated cultural ideals'.

"Regulation and Control, now, they've been around forever," Cadawaller continued, blissfully unaware of Hermione's silent tirade. "Split up into Beast, Being, and Spirit in 1706, but the office itself is older than that. Turns out, wizards have always been a nervous lot. Found creatures that could do magic and think for themselves unsettling from the off. They started out small -- banshees, and that. Poltergeists. Dementors. But over time, they stuck their fingers in every pie within reach, until everything that wasn't a wizard needed permission to eat and breathe."

Ron sipped his tea. It was a hair above tepid, and it had somehow lost half the sugar he remembered spooning into it.

"Goblins are Regulation and Control's business. Have been since goblins lost their rights in the rebellion of 1894," Cadawaller said. Ron thought the spark of that uprising had been about housing grants and health-care for goblin elderly, but he couldn't be sure. He'd always found History of Magic dreadfully boring. "After that, goblins had to ask for permission to change their minds, which brings me to this office. Started in 1906, because there were more goblins than Regulation and Control realised, and they already had their hands full with vampires, werewolves, and house-elves." Cadawaller leaned forward a bit and squinted. "You still with me, son? You need another spot of tea?"

"Yes," Ron said. "No."

"When a goblin wants to petition, he comes to us," Cadawaller said. "Fiona and Myrtle fill out the forms, and I read the case and make a report. My report has suggestions, mind, but that's all they are. At the end of the day, the decision is up to the bastards down the hall. And now they want to change that."

The pause was tight and pointed, and Ron realised it was his turn to participate. "How?" he ventured. "Why?"

"Apparently, they're busy, or some rubbish," Cadawaller barked. "Spirit doesn't say much, but they haven't done much but sit around and eat scones since your friend got the dementors sorted during the war. But Beast and Being, that's another matter. Talk to any one of those lay-abouts, and they'll swear they're up to their eyeballs. They'll start going on about the House-Elf Workers Union, or the Werewolf Protection League, or how the centaurs are rebelling again." He shook his head, and made the tea-costs-too-much-these-days sound that was becoming all too familiar. "What they want, is for us to take the goblins off their hands. Want us to deal with the petitions, ourselves."

"Oh," Ron said. It was the best he could do.

"I supposed they'll want to have an opinion if it's something big -- say, a goblin comes in and wants to marry a human -- but they don't want to be bothered with goblins who just want to move house or visit their aged grandmother on the Continent."

Ron thought better of it, but he couldn't help himself. "Does that happen often? Goblins wanting to marry humans?"

"Once or twice a year," Cadawaller replied. "I told you, goblins don't always know their own heads. And humans should stay off the liquor. Muggle women, in particular."

"Right," Ron said, shuddering. "What about me, then?"

"Oh," Cadawaller said. "You. Well, like I said, they want us to deal with the petitions. But they don't want me making the final decisions; they think sixty years in this office has made me soft. So they've hired a fellow. Mallard, I think his name is. Malloy, maybe. I'll do my reports, same as I always have, but I'll give them to this Mallard, instead of sending them on to Regulation and Control. Problem is, I've no place to put him. Well, I do, but you're already in it, so I'll need you to move your desk."

 

\---

 

After a stint in the hallway and a brief internment in what Ron suspected was actually a supply cupboard -- a supply cupboard with _spiders_ , no less -- Ron and his table were shoehorned into the office of Fiona and Myrtle.

Fiona Applewaith and Myrtle Mimbleton were hopelessly cheerful women in their early thirties. Fiona had black hair and Myrtle had brown, but they sported similar, chin-length bobs, as well as similar horn-rimmed spectacles. They drank the same kind of tea, preferred the same kind of scones, and their desks were pushed together and arranged facing each other, so they could pass the stapler back and forth as they worked. Their office was slightly larger than Ron's first, and it had a window, but the extra space was rendered void by more clutter than Ron had ever seen, half the window was blocked by a potted plant that Ron thought looked carnivorous, and the damp creeping across the walls was covered by cut-outs from Quidditch Hunks Monthly.

And really, Ron had hoped after Hogwarts that he'd never have to see Oliver Wood in his pants again.

Fiona and Myrtle were best friends who grew up across the street from each other. They attended Hogwarts together, where they were Sorted in to Hufflepuff together, played Quidditch together -- Seeker and Chaser, respectively -- and competed on the Gobstones team together. They now worked together -- landing here only after being shuffled everywhere from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to the Department of Magical Games and Sports because this was the only office that didn't insist they be split up -- and they also shared a flat together, in the new residential development off Diagon Alley. Fiona's boyfriend was Myrtle's boyfriend's second cousin, and from what Ron had gathered from the last ten minutes of their conversation, they often went on double-dates together.

"Well, what do you think, then?" Fiona asked, holding her hand out for the stapler. Their desks were arranged in eerie mirror-images of each other; Myrtle passed it over without looking up from her stack of parchment. "Should I wear the blue or the red?"

"Oh, I don't know," Myrtle replied. Her quill moved with a persistent scratching sound. "You should be careful with red, because of you hair. If it's too dark, it makes you look like a ghost. Where are you going, again?"

Ron took a swipe at the inter-office memo hovering over his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it ignored him.

"Oh, that one place, over in Tinderblast Row," Fiona replied. "I can't think of the name."

"Um... the Jolly Roger?" Myrtle asked. Ron took Hermione there once; it was their first proper date after the war. It was also horribly overpriced and the unfortunate victim of a decorator who had seen too many old Muggle films about pirates.

"No." Fiona set the stapler on Myrtle's side of their collective desk and aimed her wand at her fingernails.

Ron sighed and did his best to ignore the instinctual urge to hex the pair of them with laryngitis. Three hours ago -- when Cadawaller pulled him out of the supply cupboard and threw him into the lion's den -- he found their chatter fascinating, because he didn't understand how two people who had lived in each other's pockets for almost thirty years could still have something to talk about. Now, he found it irritating, and he didn't understand how they had not -- after all this time -- learned to communicate through some kind of telepathy, since they quite obviously shared a brain. His ears were not happy, and he was just sure they'd be bleeding by five o'clock.

"The Time-Turner?" Myrtle offered. This was a dance club that played Wizarding rock from the 80's. Of course, Wizarding rock from the 80's didn't have much in the way of diversity, so the selection was mostly limited to Hobgoblins songs recorded before Stubby Boardman got fat and interested in Muggle drugs.

"No," Fiona said, examining her nails. She switched wand-hands and started on the other side. "I'll think of it. Just give me a moment."

"Kneazle Ugly?" Myrtle said.

"Yes, that's it!" Fiona said, and Ron winced. He'd never been there, but from what he'd heard, it was the sort of place that had lots of flashing lights and drinks that exploded on contact. Local pub gossip suggested the secret, anonymous owners were actually Fred and George. For his part, Ron wouldn't put it past them. "Kneazle Ugly. I don't know why, though."

"He probably knows you've lost interest," Myrtle said. "They can usually tell, even if they don't mention it."

"I suppose," Fiona said. "Stapler? Ta." She twirled it in her hand before attacking a pile of forms. "So, blue or red?"

"I already told you, you have to be careful with red," Myrtle said. "Shame, that. It's a nice dress."

"What do you think, Ronnie?"

Ron looked up warily, and the memo pecked at the side of his head like some kind of demented bird. "What?"

"Does red make me look like a ghost?"

Ron paused. He'd wanted silence for the last three hours, and now that he had it, it was sudden and strangely foreign. Myrtle tilted her head, and there was a dangerous gleam in Fiona's eye. His experience with women was limited to living with his sister and almost-dating Hermione, and while neither of them worried over-much about things like hair or make-up or clothes, he knew damn good and well this was one of _those_ questions -- the type that didn't have a correct answer. It was right up there with 'do these robes make me look fat?'.

"I don't know," Ron said slowly. As if he didn't already know he was treading dangerous water, Oliver Wood looked down at him expectantly from where he was pinned to the wall. Ron made a mental note to tell Wood to find the rest of his kit. "Ghosts don't wear red, usually."

Fiona laughed, and Myrtle pursed her lips, then nodded, as if running some private tally in her head. The memo applauded his discretion by pecking him right in the ear.

"Geroff!" Ron shouted, beating at the air. The memo avoided his blows with the kind of fluid grace that should not belong to a folded bit of parchment.

"It's best just to open them," Myrtle advised. "They're like Howlers, really. They just keep at it until something explodes."

Ron growled. "It's not mine." He wondered if setting it on fire would cause undue comment. If he still had his own office, he would have rendered it to ash as soon as it flew in.

"Oh, who's is it?" Fiona asked.

"It's for a Penelope Boot," Ron replied. "Department of Birth, Death, Inheritance, Marriage, and Magical Taxes."

"Cor, that's not even on this floor," Myrtle said.

"That's not even in this building!" Ron replied. Due to size constraints, the Department of Birth, Death, Inheritance, Marriage, and Magical Taxes was annexed to a new location some five years ago. According to his dad, it was now in an abandoned Underground station two blocks from the Ministry proper. To get there, you had to take the main lifts to the level seven and catch a strange, sideways lift on the other side of Games and Sports, or use the Visitor's Entrance, which was a portkey charmed to look like a ticket machine. "Do you hear me?" he asked, turning to face the memo. "Go down to Games and Sports and catch a ride over on the Birth Canal."

"I hate it when people call it that," Fiona said with a sniff. "It's so tasteless."

"Says the woman with Oliver bloody Wood tacked on the wall above my bloody desk," Ron muttered. Wood drew himself up and favoured Ron with the two-fingered salute, and Ron repaid it in kind.

\---

"Cannon's look good this year," Harry said, leaning back in his chair until it reared up on two legs.

Ron nodded and sipped his firewhiskey, which was on ice and in a tall glass. Harry frowned at it periodically, a silent reprimand Ron was choosing to ignore. By mixing liquor liberally with an empty stomach, he'd managed to reach that mythical place where everything was floaty and his life didn't suck, and he intended to stay there as long as possible.

"I'm glad they kept Hamilton," Harry continued. Their table was tucked into a far corner, which was what passed for secluded at the Three Broomsticks. Six months gone, Harry wasn't mobbed in the streets any more -- not very often, anyway -- but people would occasionally point and stare. Particularly when drunk. "With him, I'd say they've a fair chance against Montrose."

"You think?" Ron asked slowly, unable to decide if Harry was taking the piss. "Montrose flattened Puddlemere last week, four-ten to one-sixty, and Puddlemere caught the Snitch."

"Of course they did," Harry said. "Montrose's Seeker -- wossname -- Gilly? Gilbert?"

"Giles."

"Right, Giles. He wasn't the best idea they ever had," Harry said. "Five years they've had him, and they've been playing the same match since. They run out and make a load of goals in the first ten minutes -- get a bit of a lead -- then after that, they just sit on their brooms and help the Keeper mind the hoops. If Giles wakes up in time to catch the Snitch, great."

"And if he doesn't?" Ron asked.

"Well, they're still up by two hundred, so who cares, really?"

"True," Ron agreed. Rosmerta caught his eye, and he gestured for another.

"Now Hamilton, he's all right," Harry went on, picking at the label on his butterbeer. "The rest of the team is an even match with Montrose, if you ask me." Ron hadn't asked, but he found he had missed this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat around and listened to Harry rabbit on about _nothing_. "If he plays right, he'll have the Snitch before Montrose has a chance to pad the scoreboard, and Giles'll still be looking for his kit."

"Why am I not surprised? You two will never change. Holed up at the crappiest table, pissed to the gills and talking about Quidditch."

Ron froze. His happy place went south for the winter -- abruptly and without him -- and neglected to leave a forwarding address.

"Malfoy," Harry said. His tone was passing pleasant, and Ron silently ground his teeth. "Have a seat, won't you?"

"Only if your boyfriend won't mind," Malfoy replied. Ron rolled his eyes and sighed, but he flapped his hand toward an empty chair. Harry and Malfoy formed a strange sort of friendship during the war; Ron didn't like it, but for Harry's part, it was not open for discussion.

"How've you been?" Harry asked.

"Good," Malfoy replied, picking lint off a jumper the same grey as his eyes. His hair was shorter than Ron ever remembered it being, and he seemed to have regained some of the weight he lost during the war. "And you?"

"Good," Harry replied.

"Here we are, then," Rosmerta interrupted. "One triple firewhiskey, rocks."

"Good Lord, Weasley," Malfoy said, lifting an eyebrow. "Are you trying to forget something in particular, or just your life, in general?"

"Anything for you, love?" Rosmerta asked Malfoy.

"Mandrake vodka and pumpkin juice, please."

"At least I don't drink like a girl," Ron said. "What are you doing here, anyway? Are you back to stay, or are you just slithering through for a visit?"

"Let's see," Malfoy said slowly. "My father's dead, and my mother's in Azkaban. Who exactly would I be visiting?"

Harry cleared his throat.

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. He snatched his drink off the table and killed the first third in one go.

In school, Malfoy was the enemy. And he was meant to stay the enemy during the war, but that wasn't how things worked out. Instead, the three of them passed through Grimmauld Place on a rare visit to find Malfoy asleep on the drawing room couch. He was pale and thin, bruised like he'd picked a fight with a herd of centaurs, and recovering from a nasty gash on his side that he'd received courtesy of Fenrir Greyback. That night, as they stood in the entryway to a house that felt both dead and alive, Ron expected Harry to rail at Lupin and Tonks until the decaying walls came crumbling down. But he didn't; he cocked his head to the side, and after a strange, silent pause where Ron swore he could hear the house breathing, he sat down next to Malfoy and asked him how he was feeling.

Ron never questioned Harry's anonymous owls; he didn't question why Harry knew things about the horcruxes that he hadn't before, or how he suddenly got the information Hermione needed to create the spell that would destroy them. They started coming about a month before Harry found the first one, and it never occurred to Ron that it was Malfoy passing Harry secrets from the other side. He never asked, but Harry never offered. It was a strange, dark time then, and secrets were being kept all around.

"He makes a point, though," Harry said. "You've been gone for months, now. I was starting to think you preferred being a Muggle."

"Hardly," Malfoy said. His drink arrived, and he paid Rosmerta with a handful of sickles and a leer. "Muggles are boring and horribly uncouth, and I can safely say that American Muggles are the worst of the lot." He sipped his drink, which was a lurid shade of orange. "I just needed to get away for a bit. At least until the Ministry was done auctioning off the house I grew up in and deciding if I could keep my father's money."

"You were in America?" Ron asked.

"Boston," Malfoy said, shrugging. "It was Zabini's idea. He's got a Squib cousin -- step-cousin, really, from his mother's fifth marriage. Or was it her sixth? Anyway, he moved to America for university, and decided to stay. Zabini owled him, and he got me a job at the firm he works for." He laughed stiffly. "If my father could have see it: his only son, filing paper and answering telephones for a Muggle solicitor. I bet he was rolling in his grave."

Ron retreated behind his firewhiskey. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"It wasn't bad, all things considered," Malfoy continued. "Muggle law is almost interesting, in its own way. You'd be surprised what Muggles think they need rules for. But the Muggle stock market -- that was almost worth staying for. If done right, it's a license to print money."

"What brings you back, then?" Harry asked.

"It was time I came home," Malfoy said. "Besides, I was offered a job." He paused, ostensibly for Harry or Ron to inquire about said job, but Harry was busy looking baffled, and Ron didn't care. Malfoy dove into his drink, sucking half of it down before coming up for air. "Where's your other third, then?"

"Bloody Hell, I've been wondering that, myself," Ron said sourly. Harry had said for them to meet at eight, and it was nearly ten.

"Running late, I guess," Harry said. "She was coming in from out of town."

"I'm here, I'm here." This from Hermione, who was suddenly standing behind Malfoy. Ron blinked at her; he hadn't seen her arrive.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Malfoy said, rising. "I'm meant to be at the office by nine, and my life's still in boxes."

Sighing, Ron waved for another drink.

"What was that about, then?" Hermione asked, once Malfoy was out of earshot. Her hair was planning a coup -- ready to escape its hasty bun at any moment -- and she looked harassed. "Disappears for how long, and then decides to stop in for drinks?"

"Never mind him," Ron said. "How about you? We've been here _hours_."

"I was sleeping," Hermione said shortly.

"Sleeping?" Ron asked. "In the middle of the evening?"

"I just got in this afternoon, from Eastern Europe," Hermione said. "I'm portlagged. My brain thinks it's about half four."

"Eastern Europe?" Harry asked. "Visiting Viktor, were you?"

A growl formed in Ron's throat, and he drowned it with his drink. His glass was empty; he sucked an ice cube into his mouth and began mashing it with his teeth.

"I saw Viktor, but it wasn't a social call," Hermione said. Ron's new drink arrived; it was floated over, as Rosmerta was stuck at the bar, enduring what looked like a drunk attempting to chat her up. Ron smiled sympathetically, and with a flick of his wand, sent her enough to cover the drink and a healthy tip. "I met him in Bulgaria, but from there, we portkeyed to Durmstrang."

"Durmstrang?" Harry asked.

"What's it like?" Ron cut in.

"Like Hogwarts, really, only with more snow," Hermione replied, with a lazy wave. "And before you ask, I don't know where it is. Viktor's portkey took me straight to the Headmaster's office. Honestly, I didn't see much. I was only there a few hours."

"But why?" Harry asked.

"To take my NEWTs, of course," Hermione said sensibly. "Well, their equivalent of NEWTs. Same idea, really. Intensive tests in the core subjects." Harry pushed his half-finished butterbeer toward her; she paused for a moment before taking a small sip. "I plan to take proper NEWTs when Hogwarts reopens, but until then, this will suffice."

"Yes," Ron said shortly. His last drink had failed to take him back to his happy place; it had zoomed him past his happy place to a cold, temperamental location where his stomach was sour and his skin felt hot. "But why?"

"So I can get a job," she replied.

"You have a job," Ron reminded.

Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened around Harry's butterbeer. "Pardon me if I don't want to work the till at Flourish and Blotts for the rest of my life." Ron looked away, and she sighed heavily. "Neville owled me last week. The research lab at St Mungos is looking for someone. I'd be perfect for it, really, and from what Neville said, the senior researcher agrees, based on the work I did for the horcruxes, and the improvements McGonagall and I made on the Patronous, but St Mungos has rules. I can't even apply without NEWTs. It could be another year before McGonagall gets Hogwarts open, and I can't wait that long." She paused, fiddling with one of the empty crisp packets sitting on the table. "I think I can get by with these Durmstrang tests. Neville said there's a girl from Beauxbatons in his department, and they didn't give her any trouble. I don't think it's the tests so much, but the idea that I stayed in school long enough to take them."

"Right," Ron said.

He pushed his drink away. Nine o'clock would be coming all too soon.

 

\---

 

Ron's arse hit his chair at fifteen after nine, and the first thing he saw was a singed note from Harry and a bottle of Pepperup in his floo. The second thing he saw was Fiona-and-Myrtle's picture of Oliver Wood. Wood still hadn't found his kit, and when Ron mentioned it, he was greeted with a rude gesture.

"Good morning, Ronnie," Fiona chirped. Ron mumbled something he hoped was agreeable and seized the Pepperup with both hands. She smiled archly. "Long night?"

"Short," Ron groused. His head was throbbing like the drum solo from a Weird Sisters song. "But we made up for lost time."

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Myrtle said, swooping in like a great, bespectacled bat. She had a large scone in one hand and a larger tea in the other, and Ron's stomach began planning an insurrection.

"Fresh in," Fiona said conspiratorially. "Worse for wear, I think. Dragged himself in like a wet cat."

"New bloke's here," Myrtle offered, when met with Ron's growl. "Not bad looking, if you like them skinny and blond."

Fiona laughed. "Oh, I like them however they come."

Wood winked in her general direction. It dissolved into a scowl when Ron's quill hit him in the face.

"Don't you know him?" Fiona asked, pointing at Wood with the stapler.

"We were at Hogwarts together, for a bit," Ron replied, wincing as the Pepperup kicked in. It zapped his exhaustion, but that was about it. It didn't remove the wool that had been packed inside his head overnight, and he still felt like he'd been run over by a Muggle lorry. He traded it in for his tea and tried not to swallow his tongue.

"Oooh, did you play Quidditch with him?" Myrtle asked. She sat down at her desk, but between the tea, the scone, and the twinkle in her eyes, Ron suspected it would be another hour before she managed to do some work.

"No," Ron replied. Blinking, he noticed his own desk for the first time. More correctly, he noticed the stack of parchment and scrolls so tall it was threatening to topple onto the floor. Apparently, Cadawaller had already been by. "I didn't go out for Quidditch until my fifth year, and Wood was well gone by then."

"How about Cormac McLaggen?" Fiona asked. McLaggen's picture was also on the wall, but thankfully, it was positioned so that Ron was spared looking at it. "His bio in Quidditch Hunks Monthly says he played for Gryffindor his last year at Hogwarts."

"He did," Ron said. "I suppose," he added quietly. The mess that had been the Gryffindor Quidditch team during his sixth year was not something he cared to explain while he was having difficulty sorting his right hand from his left. "You should talk to Harry; he played with them both."

"Harry Potter," Fiona said, sighing. "I always figured he'd play professionally, once he got that nastiness sorted out. He was quite the talent, and Quidditch certainly pays better than the Ministry. I'm sure he had offers."

"The Magpies, the Tornados, and the Kestrals," Ron muttered. He was secretly glad the Cannons never entertained Harry; Ron would have been hurt when Harry refused. "And Puddlemere, just last season."

"Cor, why didn't he go?" Fiona asked. "I can't imagine passing up Quidditch to root dark wizards out of their hidey-holes. Didn't he get his fill during the war?"

"I once read in Witch Weekly that he didn't want to play professionally because of his relationship," Myrtle said. Witch Weekly featured a Harry-centric article in almost every issue, which was often based on the same kind of truth and hard facts generally found in The Quibbler. "He's in love, and was pained by the idea of being away for long periods of time."

"Rubbish," Ron said. Last time he checked, Aurors were away for long periods of time. Harry was not-home so constantly Ron often wondered why he bothered letting a flat. "Harry didn't play Quidditch because he enjoys it too much. He was afraid he'd stop enjoying it if he did it for a living. His relationship has nothing to do with it."

"So, he's still attached?" Fiona asked. Cadawaller walked past the open door, apparently intent on speaking with the new bloke; she made a show of fussing with the papers on her desk, and charmed her quill to look like it was writing. "The last Witch Weekly said there was trouble in paradise."

"Witch Weekly is ten gallons of doxy-piss in a five-gallon cauldron," Ron snapped. "He's quite attached, and I should know. I see them both regularly."

"What about you, then?" Myrtle asked, and Ron supposed she fancied herself sly, but she lost points for subtlety in all categories.

Last Friday -- just as Ron was out the door -- Myrtle cornered Ron in the kitchen, and to Ron's horror, mentioned that Fiona was looking for a reason to leave her boyfriend, and that Ron could well be that reason, if he could be bothered to show a little interest. Ron could not think of anything he could be less bothered to show interest in, except possibly redoing the war, or hanging out with Malfoy, so he did the sensible thing: he politely pretended to have no idea what Myrtle was talking about. Myrtle, of course, decided Ron was just playing hard-to-get, and seemed to be regrouping in a way that suggested she would shortly be redoubling her efforts.

"What about me?" Ron asked suspiciously. Cadawaller walked by again, making the return-trip to his office. Ron waved a scroll around with heroic effort.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Myrtle prodded.

Ron hummed tunelessly and feigned interest in Finglaud 5K11-G088:31's request for permission to take a night job as a janitor at the Time-Turner. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday only, and he'd be back in a goblin-approved residential area by curfew.

"What about that one girl?" Fiona asked. "The one with the hair?"

"I'm not talking about this," Ron said. He stood, with vague plans to disappear into the supply cupboard that was now the filing room until Merlin came back from the grave. Spiders had not been on the itinerary when he woke up, but really, spiders were preferable to this. "We're not talking about this."

"Touched a nerve, I guess."

"Quite."

"I heard she cheated."

"With his brother."

"Brothers." Emphasis on the plural. "The twins, wasn't it? And at the same time."

"SHE DID NOT CHEAT," Ron shouted. Loudly. Cadawaller probably heard that. "She never really liked my brothers," he added, in Hermione's defence and in a tone of voice that hopefully couldn't be heard down at the Atrium. "Well, she got on all right with Percy, before he went round the twist, but never mind the rest. She saw Bill and Charlie all but twice before the war started, and as for the twins, she once told me -- and I quote -- 'those two are hopelessly juvenile and utterly unsafe'."

Fiona and Myrtle exchanged a look. The clock ticked. On the wall, Wood was suddenly enraptured with his broom. The silence stretched on for a full minute, until it was rudely interrupted by a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and rain sheeting against the window like it meant business.

"Bloody Hell," Ron said, startled. "What's that about?"

"Conrad from Magical Maintenance is in a snit," Fiona explained, sipping her tea. "I heard his wife left him."

"I heard he left her."

"Enough," Ron said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, an attack it probably didn't deserve. "How about we..." He almost said _not talk_ , but around here, that was foolishness. "Right. Let's just talk about Quidditch, then."

"Well, that would be a change, you talking about Quidditch."

Thunder rolled by again, rattling the windows with homicidal tendencies. Ron blinked. In the slow, suspended moment that followed, Ron tried desperately to tell himself he was hallucinating.

Firewhiskey poisoning. That was the only explanation.

 

\---

 

Ron's _after_ had always been fuzzier than Harry or Hermione's, even when people started to die and they hadn't seen anyone but each other in weeks and _after_ was all they had to cling to. When _after_ came up, as it often had, Harry and Hermione talked in specifics. They had plans. They had goals. They had detailed lists of things they wanted to do and places they wanted to see and feats they wanted to accomplish. Ron, who spent most of the war with the single-minded focus of simply surviving, thought of his _after_ in generalisations. He would work -- though he wasn't exactly sure where -- and he would have a girlfriend -- though he wasn't exactly sure who -- and maybe, if having a place to live didn't include the Burrow or any of its side-structures, he would have a dog. Beyond that, _after_ was just a place where Voldemort was dead and he was happy, and most importantly, alive.

However, and despite its vagueness and utter lack of direction, there were some things Ron's _after_ never included, and one of those things was working with Draco Malfoy.

"All you did was change locations," Malfoy said. "Crappiest table and talking about Quidditch. I bet you're wearing last night's trousers under that robe." From the doorway, he peered at Ron like Ron was an insect pinned to a felt board. "Are you still pissed to the gills?"

Malfoy smirked. The cruel and familiar curl to his lips was as good as a time-turner, and Ron was suddenly fourteen again. He was awkward and too-long-limbed and angry, and he bolted from his desk, pushing past Malfoy in hopes of catching Cadawaller in his office. He caught Cadawaller in the hallway instead, and he didn't look back once he opened his mouth. He started shouting about ferrets and hands of glory and runaway Death Eaters, and he didn't stop until half of Regulation and Control wandered down the hallway to see what the fuss was about.

"I've heard about this," Cadawaller said slowly, after a long pause during which Ron realised -- a bit belatedly -- that he'd been raving like a madman. "They call it _postal traumatic distress syndrome_. Comes from the war. All that killing addles the brain. Makes a fellow run mad. They shout at the walls and take funny turns everywhere."

"Perhaps we should have him locked up," Malfoy said serenely. He was dressed in a Muggle business suit; it was charcoal grey and Ron wondered if it was flammable. "Might be safer for us all."

"I haven't run mad," Ron insisted. A quiet murmur to his right suggested Regulation and Control was still in debate. "The war did not addle my brain."

"I have to agree there. His brain was addled long before the war," Malfoy said. "Possibly since birth." He inched toward his office. "I'll just owl St Mungos. Keep him calm, and don't make any sudden movements."

"I'll give you sudden movements," Ron warned. His hand twitched for his wand, but he apparently left it behind when he fled his office. This was probably for the best, since Cadawaller's face could have been carved from stone.

"Enough," Cadawaller barked. "I raised my children -- nine of them, mind -- and I don't intend to start over today. Go back to your offices, the lot of you."

Cadawaller stumped away, muttering about how young people these days had no manners and no sense of propriety. Ron paused, closing his eyes, and shook himself. This was a dream. Just a horrible and awful dream. When he opened his eyes, he'd find he had nodded off at his desk. Fiona and Myrtle would be gossiping and debating the recent news from the latest Witch Weekly, and Finglaud 5K11-G088:31's request to take a second job would be spotted with drool.

Fuck.

Malfoy was smiling.

"Weasley," he said, pushing folder at Ron as Ron tried to slink past him. "I need fifty copies of this before lunch. Collated and stapled."

"Collated," Ron repeated slowly. Malfoy was out of his mind.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "That would be when you put the pages in order."

"The photocopier's broken."

" _Textus Duplicato_ , Weasley," Malfoy replied. "Works every time."

****

:: :: ::

"Bloody Hell," Ron snapped, struggling with the stapler as it tried to escape his grasp. In pursuit of their endless quest to not do work at work, Fiona-and-Myrtle -- and since they probably had the idea together, it was safest to just blame them both -- charmed it to operate of its own volition. The plan worked well enough for the first fifteen minutes, but the thing was rapidly developing a mind of its own. Just now, it tried to staple Ron's finger to a stack of unsigned petitions.

"It can't be that bad," Neville said, in a tone that was far too matter-of-fact for Ron's tastes. That was easy for Neville to say; Malfoy hadn't shown up at St Mungos and started ordering him around, and Neville wasn't under attack by a stapler possessed by some underworld demon still undiscovered by humankind.

"It is," Ron insisted. "Why didn't he just stay in America?" He pinned the stapler to the desk with one hand and reached for his teacup with the other. It was empty, of course; it had been that sort of morning. "It's not like we wanted him back, or anything."

Neville's head wobbled disconcertingly; he was probably shrugging. "Harry gets on with him all right," he said carefully.

"Yes, well. Harry's as daft as they come," Ron snapped. After a full minute of playing dead, the stapler gave a mighty jerk. It twitched away from Ron's hand, but Ron caught it before it could dive off the desk.

"Did you try a _Finite_?" Neville asked. He frowned at the stapler in concern.

"I can't," Ron said. "Not in here." There was magic in everything inside the Ministry -- from the memos to the lifts to the charm that kept the teapot hot, even the Fountain of the Magical Brethren and the badly-panelled walls. A blanket _Finite Incantatem_ could bring the whole place down around everyone's ears. Unless he fancied crawling out of a pile of rubble on his way to lunch, he needed to append _Finite_ with the spell Fiona-and-Myrtle used. "Not until I figure out what they did to it."

"I still can't believe he was in America," Neville said. "And a Muggle."

"I can't believe he came back," Ron said, forcing the stapler closed around copied-and-collated set number forty-nine. "And here I thought we were well shut of him."

"Maybe if you didn't provoke him," Neville offered.

"Provoke him?" Ron asked dangerously. With copied-and-collated set number fifty done and dusted, he walked the stapler over to Fiona's desk and shoved it in the top drawer, officially making it her problem. And good riddance, he thought savagely. "I don't provoke him."

"Of course you do," Neville said; matter-of-fact again, and Ron twitched.

During the war, Neville lost most of the shy nervousness that plagued him in school, but he gained a strange sort of bluntness that Ron often found uncomfortable. He didn't do it to hurt people; he simply told the truth without thinking, and Ron mostly blamed Loony Lovegood. Near the final stretch, McGonagall shacked the two up on some long term assignment of which Ron still didn't know the details -- all he knew was Neville came back missing the filter between his mouth and his brain, and believing in things like nargles.

"How, exactly, do I provoke him, then?" Ron asked.

Ron heard a commotion near the doorway that sounded suspiciously like Fiona and Myrtle, and he quickly waved Neville into silence. Fiona and Myrtle were in love with Malfoy -- collectively and as a unit -- in the same way eleven year-old girls were in love with Stubby Boardman and Martin the Mad Muggle. Ron found it increasingly irritating, mainly because if he so much as looked at Malfoy cross-eyed, the two would nag him within an inch of his life. The commotion was rounded off by a fit of school-girl giggles; Ron looked up and found, to his horror, that Fiona and Myrtle had continued on to the kitchen, leaving Malfoy in the doorway. He seemed strangely tall at that distance, and he lingered in the hallway shadows like a bad dream.

"Personal floos on company time?" Malfoy drawled, stepping inside. "Not on, Weasley. Not on."

Ron searched for a reasonable explanation, but found nothing. He was quite obviously on the Ministry's sickle, and Neville was quite obviously in his floo.

"Longbottom," Malfoy continued, slithering close enough to set his tea on Ron's desk -- right on top of the papers Ron just copied, collated, and stapled. "How've you been? What do you do, now that you can't explode cauldrons and set Potions classrooms on fire?"

Neville smiled. "I work at the Pharmaceuticals Greenhouse at St Mungos."

"Right," Malfoy said. Neville's head started to flicker and fade; Malfoy tossed another pinch of powder into the floo. "You explode plants, then."

"None yet," Neville said honestly. "I almost set the greenhouse on fire, though. Just last week. The cocoa plants needed more heat, but I forgot to define my _Aestius_. Made the whole place into an oven." Malfoy snorted, which Neville abided with his usual good humour. "Turned out all right, I suppose. Doctor Sprout -- that's Professor Sprout's husband -- he got it sorted before anything important burned up."

"Well, Longbottom, fascinating as this has been, teatime is over," Malfoy said. "Weasley has work to do, and I highly doubt he'll see to it if he's chatting with you."

"Sorry," Neville said. "And we did get to chatting, but he didn't floo me. I flooed him." Malfoy's expression said that as far as explanations went, he found Neville's sorely lacking. "Well, I didn't so much floo him directly as get sent to him. I wanted to talk to you, really, but the lady at your main switchboard said your floo wasn't squared away yet. Something about a Conrad from Magical Maintenance -- I guess his wife threw him over. Anyway--"

"She sure did," Myrtle confided, heading for her desk with a folder in each hand and a floating box of scrolls hard on her heels. Ron was confused; to the casual observer, it might look like she was doing her job. "Took up with someone else."

"Another woman," Fiona supplied helpfully, bringing up the rear with a stack of parchment as tall as a small child. A cup of tea hovered quietly at her elbow, and Ron goggled at this sudden display of industriousness. Something was very, horribly wrong. "And half Conrad's age, while she was at it."

"Anyway," Neville continued. "She put me through to your secretary, which is how I ended up here."

"Hang on," Ron said, harnessing all the dignity he could muster with Malfoy's arse on his desk and Malfoy's tea sitting on a stack of paperwork that Malfoy had assigned him to do. "I am not this sod's secretary!"

Malfoy favoured Ron with the universal shut-the-fuck-up gesture commonly used by parents, professors, and Ministry officials and motioned for Neville to continue.

Neville obliged. "I've a Gutrund here. Well, not here, precisely; she's downstairs at the apothecary, and she wants five ounces of canibis," he explained. "She's not best pleased that I wanted to speak with you first. She says she has a prescription from her doctor, but hospital-grade canibis is very potent. I rather think five ounces is a bit much for a goblin."

"Five ounces is a bit much for anyone," Malfoy muttered.

"Hagrid could get it done, I think," Ron offered. "But other than that--"

"Put her off, Longbottom," Malfoy said, as if Ron hadn't bothered with an opinion. "I'll bet my boots that prescription is not from a proper doctor." He was wearing boots; dragonhide polished to a shine, that somehow managed not to look completely ridiculous with his Muggle suit. "From her great-aunt Wicklow, more like. Old bat probably dealt in herbs before healing and cures was reclassified as operating a business from home."

"Right. I'll just send her your way if she gets stroppy," Neville said, and Ron sighed. The last thing he needed was a goblin throwing a wobbler in his floo. He'd be blowing ashes out of his quills for the next week. "I'm off, then," Neville added, disappearing in a puff of olive-tinged smoke.

"Longbottom, you said?" Myrtle asked, not bothering to wait until Neville had properly dissolved. She had _that_ face -- the one that said there was gossiping to be done. "Neville Longbottom? Is that--"

"-- no," Ron cut in, just as Malfoy said "Yes."

"Looks different in the papers," Fiona commented from behind her tea. Ron was tempted to remind her that in the papers, Neville wasn't shrunken and green. "He's a bit of all right, I suppose. I expected him to be cuter."

"Neville's cute enough," Ron snapped, common sense flying right out the window. Malfoy lifted an eyebrow, which prompted Fiona and Myrtle into another fit of giggles. "I mean... what I'm trying to say is..." His frustrated hands crept upward, intent on abusing his defenceless hair. He needed to get away from these mad women before he really did his nut. "Oh, bugger this." And Malfoy. _Malfoy_. "I don't much care what you think of Neville."

The three exchanged a look over Ron's head that said the jury was still out.

Wonderful. Now they thought he was gay. Myrtle probably did anyway, since he stubbornly refused to show interest in Fiona, but he wasn't. Gay. There was a time when he thought he might be interested in blokes, but he eventually decided that was just the war talking. It was a Harry-thing, because he had to look at Harry every day, and not a bloke-thing, because he didn't look at other blokes, at all.

Much.

"And another thing," Ron continued, rounding on Malfoy. "I am not your bloody secretary."

"Of course you are," Malfoy said. "Speaking of which, I need you to move your desk."

"Where?"

"Into my office, obviously. I don't fancy coming in here every time I need you."

 

\---

 

Ron was appalled. That was the only word for it -- appalled. He was also slightly impressed, on some secret, hidden level he didn't wish to examine to closely, but mostly, he was appalled.

Malfoy turning up in this office was the sort of cruel and unusual punishment that Ron wouldn't wish on his worst enemy -- except, possibly, Malfoy himself. And despite the vague horrors that lurked in his mind in regard to what could possibly come from continuing to work in an office where Malfoy was also employed, and apparently somewhat important while he was at it -- Azkaban was at the top of that list, as was a complete and utter dependence on firewhiskey -- Ron mollified himself with the idea that accommodations-wise, Malfoy was getting what he deserved. When Malfoy looked to be getting uppity, Ron reminded himself of two things before he reached for his wand: first, if he lost this job because he hexed Malfoy with boils his mum's couch was the only thing in his future; and second, Malfoy's office was Ron's old office, which was still, technically, Eugene Cadawaller's box room.

At least, that's what he wanted to think. And he was happy thinking that, until Malfoy shoved him through the door.

It was larger than Ron remembered. Considerably larger. The selfish part of Ron's brain insisted this was simply an optical illusion created by Malfoy doing something clever with the boxes -- namely, making them disappear -- but really, it actually was just larger. And apparently, Malfoy also did something clever with the peeling paint and any evidence of damp, because it was gone. In its place was textured wallpaper in a mauve pinstripe, met waist-high by dark and well-polished wood that looked nothing like the crap panelling the Ministry had slapped on the hallway walls. Potted palms guarded the doorway, set in the type of vases his mother would sigh over at Cauldrons & Things and flanked by fluffy armchairs that looked like they could comfortably seat two.

Malfoy had partitioned himself away from the rest of the room, and not with a wall or a doorway as a normal person would -- which Ron put down to Malfoy's chronic inability to do things normally -- but by way of two large Oriental screens. The screens were currently folded back in a way that framed Malfoy's desk; it was a large and flashy expanse of dark wood, and the floo perched at the edge was hammered pewter with a stained-glass hatch. An assortment of quills fanned out from a cup like a feathery flower arrangement, and Ron was in the position to notice that Malfoy had requested and received two windows, a large one across the back wall and a smaller one along the side. At the moment, they displayed the same doom and gloom Conrad was inflicting on the entire building, but the point remained, and Ron was not best pleased.

"It looks..." He almost said _nice_ , but he'd sooner cut of his foot than pay Malfoy something close to a compliment. "Different."

"I should hope," Malfoy said shortly. He ushered Ron further inside, and Ron saw that against the third wall, Malfoy had created a miniature sideboard, complete with a water-pitcher and a teapot on a hot-plate. "It was an absolute pit."

"Right," Ron grumbled, studying the carpet. To Ron's further disgruntlement, it was no longer balding and seemed to match the wallpaper.

"You can set up here," Malfoy said, gesturing to a stretch of empty space in front of the screens.

"Hang on," Ron said. "I haven't agreed to this."

"Just in the centre, I suppose," Malfoy continued, ignoring Ron completely. "Let's have your desk, then." After a rather forceful _Minimus_ , Ron's table was resting in the palm of his hand; Malfoy plucked it away gingerly and set in on the floor. " _Engorgio_."

"Malfoy."

"Good Lord, that's awful," Malfoy said, as the table returned to its normal size. Malfoy approached it, and muttering, tapped it in several places with his wand. It shifted into a desk -- a proper desk, with drawers and such -- which looked a good deal like Malfoy's own, only smaller. After a moment of consideration, he conjured a chair with wood that matched the desk and a cushion the same colour as the armchairs in the corner. "Much better."

"Look, Malfoy, I think you're the one with the addled brain," Ron said. "I'm not about to be your bloody secretary."

"What if I call you my assistant?" Malfoy offered, removing his suit-jacket and hanging it on the a coat-rack next to the sideboard. His shirt was overly-white against his red and grey striped tie.

"No," Ron said, but it lacked conviction. This new and improved office was rather nice. It was also quiet.

Malfoy sighed. "I'm fairly certain my assistant would be paid more than Cadawaller's paper-boy."

Ron's resolve was melting faster than one of Neville's old cauldrons. But. _But._

"Why me?" Ron asked suspiciously. Malfoy was almost being nice -- well, what passed for nice in the land of allegedly-reformed dark wizards, and Ron was quite sure he had something other than his Dark Mark up his sleeve. "It's not like we get on, or anything."

"Because you're already here," Malfoy said impatiently. "I can't abide the other two; they talk too much, and they'd probably insist I take them both, since they can't seem to breathe without each other. If I take you on, it saves me having to find someone else. I won't have to run an advert in The Prophet and wait for Wizarding Resources to send me the first imbecile who applies."

Mentally, Ron waffled. This was a horrifically bad idea. This was probably one of the worst ideas in the history of bad ideas. It was right up there with sales-tax and Voldemort learning how to make a horcrux.

"You won't have to listen to those two harpies gossip all afternoon," Malfoy said.

"I'll want my own stapler."

"Done."

"Fine."

"Christ, you're easy," Malfoy said with a laugh. "Who'd have thought? That Brown girl could've done more snogging and less pining if she'd known you could be bribed with office supplies."

"Sod you."

"Language, Weasley," Malfoy chided. "Also." He eyed Ron up and down, frowning at Ron's Ministry-issue robes, which sported a mustard stain from yesterday's lunch and spilled over his shoes because he never bothered with a shortening charm. "Stop by Twilfitt and Tattings when you're done here. Melvin Tatting can stitch a fair suit, when he's of the mind. Tell him to make you presentable, or he'll have me to deal with."

"Oh, no," Ron said. He knew it. "Absolutely not."

"Back to the harpies, then," Malfoy said, straightening his tie. "Tell me, Weasley, is that a picture of Oliver Wood pinned above your table?"

"All right, all right," Ron mumbled. "I'll get my box."

 

\---

 

"Weasley."

Malfoy, much like Cadawaller, stopped by Ron's desk at mere seconds after nine to present him with the day's work. His suit was black today, and he'd paired it with a tie so bold and bright Ron secretly thought it would make Hagrid cry.

"Malfoy," Ron replied as shortly, in their normal manner of saying good morning.

His own suit was grey, a light grey that Melvin Tatting suggested would compliment his eyes, whatever _that_ meant. He purchased two others; a black one, because Tatting had insisted a black suit was an absolute essential, and one that was a light brown bordering on tan -- he took a liking to the colour, despite Tatting's protestations that it was all wrong for his hair. He also picked up a few shirts -- all white, except the dark grey one Tatting wanted him to pair with the black suit, because all his dress shirts were leftover from Hogwarts -- and enough ties to make it look like he wasn't wearing the same two every other day.

On his way to the floo his mum said he looked nice, but Ron thought he looked bloody uncomfortable.

"Did you get the memo about parchment colours specific to request?" Malfoy asked. He moved to lean on Ron's desk, and held his teacup in front of his awful tie.

"I got it," Ron said. As it turned out, a suit-jacket was hotter than three sets of dress robes, and if Malfoy started in about something inane at this hour, Ron might have to put doxy eggs in his sugar bowl. Again.

"Blue parchment is for petitions regarding goblins under legal age," Malfoy droned in a tone that was frighteningly reminiscent of Professor Binns. "Green parchment is for petitions regarding goblins considered elderly, as elderly is outlined in _Standards for Goblin Classification, Twenty-Second Edition, Annotated_ , which would be eighty-five. Yellow parchment is for petitions regarding goblins who are over legal age but not yet elderly, except for any petition regarding Heath and Safety. Pink parchment is for petitions regarding Health and Safety."

"Right," Ron said. Doxy eggs it was, then. "Blue, green, yellow, pink. I got it."

"But did you get the memo?" Malfoy asked, sipping his tea. He studied Ron over the rim of his cup in a manner that suggested he thought Ron was a rather boring exhibit at the zoo, and Ron's hand twitched for his letter-opener. It was silver and shiny, and most importantly, sharp. He doubted anyone would notice the blood if he Transfigured the carpet to black.

"I'm sure I did."

"Because I've a petition on my desk for Mwerla One Ell Zero Two Dash Tee Three Three Two, Twenty-Seven, requesting permission to test for her Goblin-Limited Apparation License," Malfoy said. "And she's only twenty-four, which makes her under legal age, yet the petition is on yellow parchment."

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. Just one swipe, right at the neck, and Malfoy would go down like a sack of rock-cakes. "I didn't realise. The form she submitted didn't mention her age, and it's impossible to tell by looking at them." After nearly a month in this office, Ron still couldn't sort a male goblin from a female on sight. They all looked exactly alike.

"I'll have Regulation and Control forward you another copy of the memo, just in case," Malfoy said, finally removing his arse from Ron's desk. "I need to speak with Cadawaller, so I'll be down the hall for a bit, but I'm expecting a Cthylion before ten. If I'm not back before he arrives, sit him down with a spot of tea." Speaking of tea; he set his teacup on Ron's desk. This behaviour was quickly becoming a habit, and he acted most put out if Ron neglected to return it to the sideboard. "Also, see if you can't find his file."

"What's the name, again?" Ron asked through gritted teeth. If he stashed Malfoy in the filing room, his body would be dust before anyone discovered it.

"Cthylion," Malfoy said.

"Does he have a number?" Ron asked. He was tempted just to cart the entire C drawer into their office and dump all its contents on Malfoy's desk.

"I'm sure he does," Malfoy said, as he started for the door. "I don't have it at the moment." He paused thoughtfully, and his lower lip crept under his teeth. "He works at Gringotts, if that helps."

"Grand," Ron snapped. They _all_ worked at Gringotts, and Malfoy knew it. It was the only job the Ministry allowed goblins to take without filing a mountain of paperwork. "That narrows it down quite a bit."

"He works at the Diagon branch on weekdays, and has a part-time at the Tinderblast branch on weekends," Malfoy said. "His mum moved to Ireland after the hours and wages rebellion against the bank in 1984, so he's probably filed requests for Off-Island Visitations."

"What's he in for, anyway?" Ron asked. Malfoy took more represented petitions than Regulation and Control ever did, but few goblins requested a proper hearing. After filing the paperwork, most simply went home to wait for the almost inevitable refusal.

"Wants to marry a human," Malfoy said.

Ron blinked. "That's Ridiculous Notions," he said, after he recovered. "You don't have to hear it. I'll whip up a Absolutely Not packet for you to sign and send it out with tonight's owls."

"If only," Malfoy said. "I may have to let him, or the Coalition for Reasonable Treatment of Magical Creatures and Other Non-Human Entities will crawl right up my arse."

"What?" Ron asked.

"No choice," Malfoy said, sighing. "Under normal circumstances it would be Ridiculous Notions, but this isn't the one where she came in for a withdrawal and he fell helplessly in love at the sound of her voice after they exchanged all of ten words. This fellow cut right to the chase. He went and got her up the duff."

Ron swallowed harshly; this morning's scone was looking for the emergency exit. "What?" he asked again. It was all he had.

"She's Wizarding, thank God," Malfoy continued, as if this was perfectly normal. "We'd have a right mess if she wasn't. There'd be Obliviating to do, a cross-species adoption to arrange, and The Sun would be outside Royal London Hospital, wanting photos of the world's ugliest baby. The Prophet too, which would be a whole different mess. They simply refuse to behave properly around Muggles. That Skeeter woman, in particular."

"I wouldn't think that's possible," Ron said. It was too early for this sort of thing.

Malfoy snorted. "Of course it's possible. Where do hobgoblins come from, otherwise? I don't care what your mother told you, they don't sprout up from toadstool rings."

"Cabbage patches," Ron mumbled. He buried his face in a folder to hide the blush creeping across his cheeks. "She said they came from cabbage patches -- you know, when they're left to rot. Festering leaves, and that."

"Not so much," Malfoy said. His lip was twitching, and Ron studied his letter-opener with renewed interest. "They come from goblins shagging human women and leaving a present behind."

"How did he--"

"--firewhiskey," Malfoy finished. "It's almost always firewhiskey."

"Bloody Hell." Ron swallowed again, in an attempt to convince his scone not to flee the scene. "I'm never drinking again."

 

\---

 

"Weasley, can you come in early this Friday?" Malfoy asked, materialising from behind the screens. "Half eight, maybe? I'm meeting with a delegation representing the goblins at Gringotts, and they'll be in right at nine."

"Yeah, all right."

"It's a hours and wages dispute, and I'd rather avoid another rebellion," Malfoy continued, hovering over Ron's shoulder. "Also, I got Cthlyion sorted."

"Oh?" Ron asked, pointing his wand at the parchment in front of him. " _Textus Memori_." He swished to a blank parchment next to it and took aim. " _Textus Duplicato_." According to Cadawaller, the photocopier was up to snuff, but Ron thought it was best to leave well enough alone. "How'd it go?"

"I agreed to a provisional marriage," Malfoy explained. "Consummation and cohabitation not required, and it's set to terminate twelve hours after the child is born. His representative from the Coalition was not best pleased, but it was the best solution. If they're married when it's born, it won't be considered illegitimate, and the poor girl's not stuck with a goblin husband. Considering the dubious conception, he's lucky he got that much. I wouldn't have agreed to anything, but the child's not at fault."

"Dubious how?" Ron asked, and regretted it immediately. He was almost sure he didn't want to know.

"Well, he said he didn't force her, and he was under Veritaserum, so I believe him, but he admitted she was incredibly drunk," Malfoy said. "Pissed, to be precise. She doesn't remember a bloody thing, but the booze didn't stop the bun from crawling in the oven, did it? I sent her to St Mungos for a pictogram spell, and according to the Mediwizard I spoke with, the foetus is certainly goblin stock. Nothing for it."

" _Textus Memori_ ," Ron replied. "Really, I'm never drinking again. _Textus Duplicato_."

"I'll remind you of that, the next time Potter floos you on office time to invite you to The Broomsticks," Malfoy said loftily.

" _Textus Memori_." Swish and flick. " _Textus Duplicato_." Ron frowned, as the text was fairly left of centre. "Bugger. I bollocksed another one. Why does it keep running off the page like that?"

"Dupli-caaah-to," Malfoy said. "You're cutting your A's too short." A considering paused followed, and Ron found himself growing anxious. Whenever Malfoy went silent like that, Ron was suddenly presented with a load of new work and a ridiculously tight deadline. "Care for a spot of lunch?"

"Sorry?" Ron asked. That was not what he was expecting.

"Lunch," Malfoy repeated, in a tone that suggested Ron was slow, possibly because he'd been dropped as a child. "I'm starved, and that stuff they call food at the cafeteria could choke a hippogriff. I was thinking of sending out for something."

"Yeah, all right," Ron said slowly. "I could eat."

"You'll have to wait for it at the Visitor's Entrance," Malfoy said. "They always hassle delivery men in the Atrium."

"They let Accio Pizza up," Ron offered, because this was the catch. Malfoy didn't want to buy Ron lunch, he wanted Ron to fetch his lunch. "Fiona and Myrtle order from there all the time."

"Pizza is vile," Malfoy said shortly. "I ate more pizza in America than I care to think about, and I don't intend to start again now."

"The Indian place in Whitechapel delivers by floo."

Malfoy lingered over this for a moment, then nodded. "Curry it is," he decided. "Chicken or beef?"

"I don't much care, really."

"Right," Malfoy said. "I'll just get both."

 

\---

 

The lift jangled in a manner that could only be considered threatening. It shuddered as it plummeted downward, and the gears made a sound that came as close to a wheeze as bits of metal could manage. Ron braced himself against the wall as it lurched, his fingers scrambling for the grilles at the feeling of the floor dropping out from under him. It stopped suddenly, and the doors opened to reveal a grey, pockmarked expanse of concrete. Ron slammed his fist into the grilles and punched desperately at the button for level four.

This was grand. Just grand, and an ending he certainly didn't deserve. He lived through a war, and survived dating Hermione _and_ working for Draco Malfoy, only to be killed by a bloody lift.

"Level four." It gave another mighty jerk. "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and the Pest Advisory Bureau."

"About bloody time," Ron snapped, leaping from the lift before the grilles were fully open. "Bloody fucking Finnigan," he continued, as he headed left. Seamus Finnigan worked upstairs in Games and Sports, and for reasons Ron could not fathom, Games and Sports had a photocopier, and like the photocopier from the Goblin Liasion office, it was temperamental, plagued by vapours, and at the mercy of wizarding ignorance. "Gormless bastards -- the lot -- flooing me every time they break one of their Muggle contraptions."

An inter-office memo zoomed past his head like an army of dementors was at its back, and a portrait of a hag hanging from the wall complained loudly about Ron's language.

"Think I can sort things out, just because my dad's mad about Muggles," Ron continued, stomping through Regulation and Control. "Lifts bouncing me about like I'm a bloody ball, and both ways, thank you very much." He took the sharp right turn viciously, stormed straight through to his office, and banged the door open harder than was strictly necessary. "Next time one of them charms their telly black and white or sticks alfoil in their microwave, they can bloody well floo my dad."

"What's this now?" Malfoy asked, as he watered the potted plant on Ron's desk. Malfoy managed to convince Magical Maintenance that Ron's side of the office needed a window, and once it was put in, he decided Ron needed a bloody fern to go with it, a fern Ron mostly ignored. "Your dad's a bloody fool with alfoil on his head?"

"Don't you fucking start," Ron snapped.

"Right. I'll just leave you and your puss alone, then," Malfoy said, wandering toward the screens. "There's pizza, once you've calmed yourself."

Sighing, Ron threw himself into his chair. A stack of forms fluttered quietly in complaint, and the warm, friendly smell of pizza drifted through the office. Ron hadn't expected that Malfoy would actually send out for it, even when he said he'd consider it if Ron stopped whinging on like a spoilt, overgrown child.

"What kind of pizza?"

"Mine only has cheese, which is how pizza should be eaten, when it's eaten at all," came the waspish reply. "Yours has mushrooms, onions, and those vile little fish you're so fond of."

"You're all right, I suppose," Ron said. He almost meant it. "How'd it go with the Gringotts people? They still planning a coup?"

"I sent them packing," Malfoy replied from behind the screens. "I approved the raise they wanted -- three sickles an hour -- so they can have it if the bank is willing, but I put paid to bit about hours from the off. They can't complain about equal rights, then demand a six-hour work-day when wizards work eight. I told them if house-elves can work sixteen hours, and for free while they're at it, then goblins can bloody well work ten. Especially for an extra three sickles and hour."

The message indicator on Ron's floo flashed, winking like an eerie, red eye. He was tempted to ignore it for his own sanity, but the more the light blinked, the more he felt like he was being watched. Gritting his teeth, he pressed it.

"Weasley, this is Cadawaller." A wisp of green smoke curled around the disembodied threads of Cadawaller's voice. "I need a favour, when you get a minute. I'm looking for a petition I gave you a few weeks back -- Aormlerd 9K02-G434:18, wanting to move house from London to Manchester. I'm sure you'll find it faster than I will, and that filing room has spiders. I can't be having with spiders."

_Beep_

"Hey, Ron." It was Harry, who sounded extremely tired. "Just got in from Cornwall. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner; things have been a right mess around here, what with Greyback's solicitor pushing for another appeal. If I don't catch you at home tonight, I'll try you at the office tomorrow."

_Beep_

"Ronald, it's Hermione." Ron froze. "I haven't heard from you since we went to The Broomsticks the other week. Hope you're all right. Floo back when you get a moment. I'll be at the lab until eight, latest."

"Is that Granger?" Malfoy asked.

"No," Ron replied. "She left a message, is all."

"Bugger." Ron turned, and found Malfoy had appeared at his desk out of nowhere. He had two plates in his hand. "Eat this before it kills me. I can't take the stench," he added, shoving one of the plates at Ron. There were three slices, heavily laden with anchovies. "She works at the spell research lab at St Mungos, right?"

"Yeah," Ron said, around a mouthful of pizza.

Malfoy paused, licking sauce off his finger. "Weasley, is that your Gryffindor tie?"

"I suppose it is," Ron said, glancing down at himself.

"With a brown suit?"

"It's tan, thank you," Ron corrected, "and yes."

"Whatever makes you happy," Malfoy said, sighing. "Anyway, if you floo her in the near future, I need a favour."

"Oh?" Ron asked. He didn't care what Malfoy thought; pizza was the best food ever invented.

"They created an improved Contraceptus Charm about a month back. Expanded it to work on creatures besides humans," Malfoy said. "This new one is good for anything -- humans, house-elves, a pet kneazle. It has warnings -- side effects may vary, and that -- but goblins seem to be getting the worst of it." He bit into his slice of pizza and perched on the edge of Ron's desk. "Migraines, stomach cramps, the whole bit. I was hoping she could have a look at it."

"You know something?" Ron asked, popping a piece of crust into his mouth. "You almost sound like you care."

"Yes, well," Malfoy said stiffly. "It's not like they'll stop using it, right? If she fixes it, I won't have to listen to them complain about it."

"I'll ask her," Ron said, and his stomach did that funny thing it tended to do when he thought too long and hard about Hermione. "Next time I talk to her."

Malfoy retreated behind his pizza for a moment, and the silence was strangely companionable. Then: "What happened with that, anyway?"

"With what?" Ron asked slowly.

"You. And Hermione."

More silence. It was long and stilted, and unable to avoid Malfoy's questioning gaze, Ron filled it with more pizza.

"It didn't work out," Ron said finally, rooting sauce out of the corner of his mouth with his tongue. "We weren't, you know, compatible and all that rot."

"Balls," Malfoy said. Ron suspected he was hiding a smile behind all that cheese. "How did it just 'not work out'? You'd been trying to get at each other since you first stepped off the Hogwarts Express. As a spectator, I can safely say it was ridiculous."

"It wasn't that long," Ron snapped. "And we weren't ridiculous."

"Third year, then. At least," Malfoy insisted. "And you were completely ridiculous. Hermione going to the Yule Ball with Krum because you couldn't be bothered to ask her, and you taking up with Brown because -- well, I still don't know what _that_ was about -- and then what, she got in a strop and showed up to Sluggy's party with McLaggen, of all people, and meanwhile, you two were just--"

"--all right, all right. It was ridiculous," Ron admitted. "I didn't realise I liked her until that bit with Krum. And now, I honestly don't think she went with him to spite me, but then, I was bloody furious." He sighed, and he wondered why he was telling _Malfoy_ this, when he wouldn't talk about it with Harry. "It was a tight spot, really. We were friends, and that, and if I said the wrong thing it might've bollocksed everything up, and there was Harry, you know, so I just didn't say anything."

Malfoy nodded, and mumbled something agreeable through his pizza.

"She said it, finally. Well, she didn't _say_ it." Ron continued. For some reason, he couldn't stop himself. "She kissed me. It was the middle of the night, and we were standing in this bloody sheep field, right, in the middle of nowhere; dead Death Eaters everywhere, and it still smelled like fucking dementors, and Harry was crying -- fucking crying -- over this bloody great pile of ashes," he said, with an odd, tight laugh. "She looked at the ashes, you know, really looked -- like she realised that mess was him and he was dead and it was over, and she pulled he around by the bloody hair."

"Right," Malfoy said.

"It was the waiting, I think," Ron said. He needed a drink. Desperately. "We messed each other about for a fair five years. Then when it finally happened, it wasn't what either of us expected. I mean, we've always fought, but that just made it worse. There came a point when we were fighting when we weren't shagging, and then we weren't really shagging either, because she'd stopped coming around because she was tired of fighting."

"You know what you are?" Malfoy asked. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

"I know."

"You ended it, or she did?"

"She did, but I might as well have," Ron said. "I was being an arse."

Malfoy laughed and set his plate aside. "Never."

"I was. We got into a fight -- shocking, that -- and I..." Ron trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

"Oh, what?"

Ron sighed. He'd gone this far. "I may have said that I thought she was shagging Harry."

"Good Lord, Weasley, you really are hopeless," Malfoy said, and the git was still laughing. " _Accio tea_." Two cups flew over, and he handed one to Ron.

"Thanks," Ron said. "I told you, I was being an arse. And they _had_ been spending a lot of time together. When she got mad at me, she'd go visit him and complain--"

"--about what an arse you were."

"Yes." The tea was a bit sour, and Ron Summoned the sugar bowl. "That was the end of that."

Malfoy shook his head. "And somehow, you failed to notice that Harry was shagging Longbottom the whole time?"

"I didn't know," Ron protested. "Really, I didn't," he added, when Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "It's not like he said anything. Apparently, they started shagging during the war, although I'll never figure out when they found the time. He really didn't say anything. He didn't want to make Neville a target, and then after, he was worried about my sister. He didn't want to have the 'right, I told you I was dumping you for your own good, but as it turns out, I'm a little gay' conversation with her right after she woke up from being deboned."

"Well," Malfoy said slowly. "He's got more tact that I've given him credit for."

"Looking back, I might have cottoned on if I'd paid more attention," Ron said. "I mean, I think Hermione knew; she just didn't say anything because it wasn't her business. But yeah. I should have seen it. Right before the end, McGonagall shipped Neville off somewhere, and Harry fretted for days. He showed up right before we marched, and Harry did his nut. Started shouting about how he'd told Neville to stay behind, and that." He sipped his tea. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Malfoy asked, and Ron replied with a pointed look. "Oh, right. Not much to tell, really. There was Parkinson, but that was more convenience than anything, and it ended when I got caught and she got herself blown up."

"Oh," Ron said. "Was that my side, or your side?"

"I never did find out," Malfoy said. "Of course, the way she was acting at the time, either side would've been within their rights," he added, tapping his finger against the rim of his teacup. "Oddly enough, it didn't hurt as much as it probably should have. Like I said, it was mostly convenience, and I'd always figured one of us would die. Although, I'd mostly expected it to be me. And after that, I was fairly busy until I took off for the colonies."

"No one in America, then?"

"Well, there was this one bloke," Malfoy started, and Ron choked on his tea. "All right, there?"

"Yeah," Ron said quickly. He certainly hadn't expected _that_. "Tea's hot, is all."

"Looked a little like Harry, really, only his hair wasn't such a loss," Malfoy continued. "I liked him, and that, but I got offered this job. We'd only been together a couple of months; too soon to tell him I was really a wizard and ask him how he felt about moving to London."

"Right."

"Christ, it's almost two," Malfoy said suddenly. "I've a pile of work, and I mean to knock off early tonight. Zabini's in town, and I'm meeting him for drinks at the Cauldron." He stood, and started for his half of the office. "When I finish writing out this raise agreement I'll need copies to send to the bank."

"Yeah," Ron said. "I'll be right here."

 

\---

 

If asked, in the mad, suspended moment before his brain shut off and the door creaked open, Ron would say he stopped by The Leaky Cauldron because he needed a drink.

And he did need one. Desperately. At the office, the rest of the afternoon was long, and after, Ron's mind was not the safest place to be.

The Cauldron was practically empty, and behind the bar, Tom was nearly asleep. The air was thick with strained music and muted conversation, a buzz punctuated by furniture groaning as the patrons moved and glasses clinking as they drowned away their day. Malfoy and Zabini sat across from each other at a cozy table away from the door. Malfoy gestured with a cigarette as he talked, and with each word, tendrils of smoke climbed away from his long fingers like vines.

Ron wasn't sure why he was here. He also wasn't sure why he didn't just leave. He considered it, as he watched Malfoy smile at something Zabini said, but by the time his mind was made up, it was too late.

"Weasley," Malfoy called. After a glance at Zabini, he waved. "Don't you get enough of me at the office?"

"I missed my grate," Ron mumbled, with a nod to Zabini. Zabini inclined his head in return, watching him openly. "I figured I'd stop in for a drink, since I was here." The silence was stiff, and Ron swallowed a sigh. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Actually, I was just on my way," Zabini said slowly. "I'm for Milan in the morning; I suppose I should get some sleep."

"Blaise is a buyer for Gladrags," Malfoy said, grinding his cigarette in the ashtray. "Lucky bastard. Travels all over the world on someone else's galleon."

"Compensatory damages. I'm constantly portlagged," Zabini said. He frowned at Malfoy quickly before turning to Ron. "Draco tells me your sister's finally up and about."

"Yeah," Ron said slowly. He didn't remember mentioning it to Malfoy. He supposed Harry could've told him, but why Malfoy was discussion Ginny with Zabini was another question, entirely. "She gets tired easily, but she's doing well."

"I need an assistant, if she's looking for work. Someone to mind the office when I'm away," Zabini said. He handed Ron a business card; it was white with embossed green lettering. "She wouldn't have to travel, or do anything physical. She'd mostly be sending owls and answering the floo."

Ron could only stare. "Thanks," he managed finally. "She just might -- she's nearly mad from being stuck in the house."

With that, Zabini was gone, and Ron ordered a drink -- triple firewhiskey; rocks.

"Malfoy."

"I had nothing to do with it."

Ron sipped his drink; the firewhiskey burned his tongue. "Liar."

"I refuse to take responsibility now just because you're pleased," Malfoy said, stabbing his drink with its cocktail straw. It was violently orange, which said it was a mandrake vodka and pumpkin juice. "That means I'll have to take responsibility if you suddenly decide you're not. If they start shagging, you'll blame me first."

"My sister does not shag," Ron said dangerously, and he believed that. He needed to believe that.

"Of course she doesn't," Malfoy said, smiling. "And Blaise hasn't be hot for her since his fifth year."

"Right, I'm off," Ron said, but Malfoy laughed, and Ron reached for his drink.

Malfoy pulled a cigarette from the pack resting on the table and lit it with his wand.

"I didn't know you smoked," Ron commented.

Malfoy shrugged. "Filthy Muggle habit. I've been meaning to stop. I'm sure I'll get around to it one of these days." Ron reached for the pack, and Malfoy waved him off. "You'll only cough."

"Nah," Ron replied. "I smoked for a bit, right after we left school. It drove Hermione mad."

"Which is precisely why you did it, I'm sure," Malfoy said. Ron reached for his wand, but Malfoy was quicker, and the tip of the cigarette sparked bright and orange.

"Probably," Ron admitted. "I stopped because I didn't have much choice. I ran out one day, and it's not like we had money. I was in fits for a couple of days, and Hermione said it was more than I deserved."

"Accio, Weasley, Accio," Malfoy chided. "It works wonders."

"That'd've been stealing," Ron said. The smoke was sharp and strong, and it scratched his throat.

"Bloody Gryffindors," Malfoy muttered. "They can't even have a bad habit like normal people."

"Bloody Slytherins," Ron replied. "They can't stay on their own side of the war like normal dark wizards." The firewhiskey suddenly ran heavy in his veins, and he laughed. "You never told me why you did it."

"I'm no hero, if that's what you mean," Malfoy said darkly, smoke curling around his face. "I nearly told Ploughshot to shove that Order of Merlin, after all the grief she gave me."

Malfoy's trial carried on for days, a circus played out in three acts -- the Wizengamot sitting on their bench like spiders, the press mobbing anyone and everyone, and Malfoy's mother weeping in the corner. Harry's testimony was met with lukewarm response and the occasional sigh, and The Prophet managed to mistranscribe every word. Dumbledore's letter was the killing stroke, and like everything Dumbledore ever did, it was meticulously planned and delivered with flawless presentation. The letter was charmed to read itself, and that was what tipped the scales, not the words, not the alibis, and not Narcissa Malfoy's tears. For three full minutes, Albus Dumbledore was alive again. His voice was hearty and familiar as it echoed off the courtroom walls, and that was what changed the Wizengamot's mind.

"Second Class," Ron recited, although he hadn't looked at it since his mum hung it over the mantle. "For defending the Wizarding World against the influence of evil and certain destruction, and protecting the Boy Who Lived."

"Third Class, for infiltrating the enemy and providing crucial information in a time of great need, at considerable personal risk." There was a pause, and Malfoy retreated behind his drink. "It wasn't like that. I was simply looking out for myself."

"You betrayed Voldemort," Ron said stubbornly.

"Yes, well. Voldemort winning wasn't in my best interest."

A girl walked in, and Ron watched her as she headed for the bar. She was tall, with brown hair that tumbled past her shoulders and faded jeans that hugged her arse, She glanced around as she waited for her drink, and she caught Ron studying her, blushing prettily before turning back to Tom. Malfoy snorted.

"Just like that?" Malfoy asked. "You're over Hermione, then?"

"I've been, really," Ron said honestly. "Our friendship suffered, and that's what bothers me." Malfoy seemed content with that, until Ron attacked in kind. "You're over Harry, then?"

Malfoy pushed his drink away. "What?"

"I know you guys--"

"--just the once," Malfoy said shortly. "And it was an accident, really."

"Oh?" Ron said.

He suspected, but he never really knew, mainly because he never stopped to think about it. He shifted in his seat, and buried himself in his drink. He wished he hadn't thought about it now, because the very idea was disturbing. Actually, it wasn't disturbing, in ways it probably should have been.

"It was that one night, when you lot turned up at Grimmauld," Malfoy said quietly. "He sat up talking with me, and we said some things we likely shouldn't have." He ground out his cigarette with a sigh. "That house was very strange -- I often thought the walls were listening -- and he started staring, as if he'd never seen me before, and then all at once, he was in my lap." He smudged his thumb over the condensation blooming on his glass. "It probably needed to happen, since we've always driven each other to distraction, but it was... we never talked about it, and it's not happened since."

"He never told me," Ron said.

"Of course he didn't," Malfoy replied. "You were, well, excitable back then. You'd've only gone round the twist, and he had enough to be going on with." He shrugged, studying a point over Ron's shoulder. "I told you, it probably needed to happen. Best we got it out of the way, so we could get on with our lives."

"What you're saying is, I should stop being such a girl's blouse and floo Hermione," Ron muttered.

"I wish you would," Malfoy said seriously. "I really need her to look at that spell."

"Wanker," Ron said, pushing away from the table. "I'm for the gents'."

The door stuck in a way that could be out down to damp, and the air was humid, heavy with the sour and familiar odour of loos. Ron handled his business at once and quickly stepped to the sink to wash his hands. The pipes banged and groaned before spitting a feeble stream of water out of the tap, and when Ron looked up, he saw Malfoy behind in him the mirror. Malfoy's hair was almost white in the poor light, and he looked pale. In the reflection, Ron saw Malfoy curled under a blanket on the couch in Grimmauld Place. He saw the Malfoy he thought was going to betray them or kill them or -- at the very least -- steal his best friend away.

"Why are you here?" Malfoy asked quietly.

The question hung between them, twisting uncertainly around the dull throb of the pipes and the thick smell of stale water. Ron dried his hands carefully -- stalling, he was stalling and he knew it -- and turned. He rather didn't have an answer for that. Honestly, he rather didn't have an answer for anything. For his life. Water slid from the leaky tap, hitting the basin in slow, fat drops. Ron studied the cracked, blue tile stretching beneath his feet and thought about the time he spent hibernating on his mum's couch. He realised, as he listened to Malfoy breathe, that the only difference between then and now was that now, Ron had a paycheque.

"I missed... I needed," He paused, reaching mentally, but the only thing to be found in that loo was a handful of puddles, a toilet with a chipped tank, and Malfoy, who looked truly discomfited for the first time in Ron's memory. "I was here, yeah, so I thought--"

Malfoy kissed him then, and Ron decided this was a pretty good time to just stop talking.

 

\---

 

The sink dug into the small of Ron's back, cutting a wide stripe just above his arse, and one of Malfoy's hands was in his hair, fingers tangled and twisted. Malfoy's wrist brushed Ron's temple, and his heartbeat throbbed over Ron's skin and echoed in Ron's ears. Water dripped, splashing softly against the porcelain. Ron caught Malfoy by the waist and slid his hand behind Malfoy's neck, pulling him closer as Malfoy's tongue slipped over his. Malfoy made a noise, soft and strangely deep, and trapped Ron's lower lip between his teeth.

This was madness, and the pipes agreed with a knock and a bang as someone ran the water in the ladies'. Malfoy pressed Ron harder against the sink, and traced his cheek with the pad of his thumb. His fingers were parchment-rough and ink-stained, black spots threading through the lines in his skin. He tasted of pumpkin juice and tobacco, sticky sweet and darkly sour; Ron tilted his head back and sucked Malfoy's tongue into his mouth.

Malfoy's suit was a blue so dark it was almost black, and the soft material rasped under Ron's hands. Malfoy's teeth met Ron's skin, sharp where his jaw curved into his neck, and with the sink groaning as it tried to pull away from the wall, Ron found he was ridiculously hard. Malfoy pushed, nudging Ron's cock with his hip, and Ron hissed, snake-like and loud as it slithered around them and the loo's walls. Ron bit his lip as hard as Malfoy's teeth grazed his neck, until the tobacco and pumpkin juice was laced with copper, pulled at a button on Malfoy's jacket until it popped free and clattered to the tiles.

Ron expected words, but Malfoy didn't give them. He broke the stubborn, humid silence with sharp breaths that shivered over Ron's skin and thick murmurs that were mostly air as they whispered against his ears. Malfoy's hands were warm. Ron's tie slid away from his collar with a soft, sibilant noise, and Malfoy's cock pressed against his thigh. Ron liked the way it felt there; hard, heavy, hot through the material of their trousers, and Ron wrenched him closer, hands curving around Malfoy's arse. Malfoy voiced his approval with lips and teeth and tongue, and shifted in a way that granted them both heat and delicious friction.

The door creaked, sad and ancient. Ron stilled, waiting for it to bang open and half the pub to tumble inside, but Malfoy never faltered. He pulled Ron's shirt free of his trousers, and slid his long fingers over Ron's chest. Too many clothes, the door and the pub be damned. The sink bore into his back with the sort of sharp bite that said he'd have a bruise there in the morning. Let it. He dragged Malfoy's head up, heat flushing over his skin as Malfoy's tongue pushed into his mouth, and he rolled his hips, catching Malfoy's shaky rhythm: press, slide, press, slide.

Malfoy liked to bite. He snapped at Ron's neck, his jaw, and now that his shirt hung limp and half-open, his chest. His mouth met Ron's skin harder than had any right to feel good, but Ron arched into it. He moaned each time Malfoy's teeth pressed into his skin, each time he pictured how he'd look in the morning -- red and purple blooming between his freckles, dark and angry and tender. Malfoy came up for a kiss, his stubble rough against Ron's cheek and jaw. Press, slide; press, slide. Ron snagged his fingers in Malfoy's hair, and flicked his tongue over Malfoy's lips in time.

Malfoy's shirt fell open, as crooked and disjointed as the jacket it peeked out from under. A dark flush spread over Malfoy's chest, smooth skin warming under the desperate slide of Ron's hands. The scar Greyback left him curved around his right side. Ron traced the raised line with the tip of a finger, and Malfoy moaned, a hitched breath tangling with broken words as they caught in the back of his throat. Malfoy pressed against him hard, fingers digging into Ron's hips as their kisses became sloppy and wet. The air was thick, and the walls were closing in. He was going to come in his pants like a bumbling fourth year if the heat didn't kill him first.

His belt unbuckled with a metallic ping, and the rasp of his zip was loud in the stilted quiet. The drip from the tap was as methodical as a clock. Malfoy's hand hovered just above his pants; Ron's hips hitched up at the thought of the touch, but Malfoy hesitated, pulled back.

"Who are you here with?" Malfoy asked. His fingers skittered up toward Ron's navel.

"You." Ron's voice was thick, hoarse. All he wanted was more of Malfoy's skin under his mouth.

"Good," Malfoy said. "I won't be someone else's ghost."

Ron breathed, closed his eyes. "You're not."

Malfoy kissed him again, his tongue rough and wet against Ron's lips as his fingers closed around Ron's cock. Ron's legs shuddered and he clutched at the sink; it dipped under Ron's weight, shrieking in protest, and a chunk of plaster flaked away from the wall. He couldn't breathe. Malfoy's lips were on his skin Malfoy's cock was tight against his hip. Malfoy rocked with his fist; press and slide as he twisted his wrist and pulled his hand up. Ron bit now, smoothing over the marks with the tip of his tongue, heat sparking under his skin at the way it made Malfoy shake.

He wanted to touch. Wanted to feel. Malfoy's cock slid perfectly against his thigh, but Ron wanted to have it in his hand, and Voldemort was over and done; he couldn't say it was the war talking any more. Malfoy's belt refused to yield because his hands were suddenly heavy, fumbling things, and he cursed it so roundly that Malfoy kissed him into silence. Press, slide, and the noise Malfoy made was dark and raw. Ron shoved down between their bodies, his stubborn, useless fingers catching on Malfoy's zip, and the heat that fell into his hands nearly swallowed him whole.

The door creaked again, with the slow, stretched groan that might come from someone hanging on the knob. Ron wondered if someone was outside, their fingers dancing over the wood as they pressed their ear against the door. Listening; and Ron moaned, a harsh breath curling around his tongue. Waiting; and Ron's hips inched forward, his body throbbing as Malfoy's hand paused at the base of his cock. Watching; and Ron's eyes snapped open. Malfoy breathed. The shadows twisted away and Malfoy was white and grey.

Malfoy's hips snapped sharply, fingers twisting in Ron's jacket as he pushed his cock into Ron's hand. His fingers dragged over Ron hard and fast, his wrist twisting and his fist curled tight, and Ron gasped, sucked helpless mouthfuls of the thick air at the sweet slide of skin against skin. Malfoy's kisses were dangerous now, as much teeth as lips and tongue. They crept up his neck, blazing a wet trail along Ron's jaw, and Ron's mouth fell open, coaxing Malfoy's tongue inside.

Malfoy's hand grew shaky, rhythm lost to need and want, fingers slip-sliding over Ron's skin and thumb brushing over the head. Ron shuddered, tried to keep Malfoy's cock in his grasp, tried to remember how to breathe. Malfoy stilled, his swollen-lips parting around a moan, and Ron watched as Malfoy came white and hot all over his hand. Malfoy leaned in, sought Ron's mouth with a tongue that was slow and sated.

"Bite."

And Malfoy did. His teeth caught Ron's skin just behind the ear, and he dragged Ron over the edge with the harsh, fast pull of his fingers.

 

\---

 

Ron arrived at four after nine, and his suit was grey. The door was open -- which should have been the first indication that something was wrong -- and Ron poked his head in, unsure of what he'd find.

The screens were folded back. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, and a blonde was sitting at Ron's desk. She was possibly twenty-five and dressed in the sort of skirt and matching suit-jacket favoured by Muggle business women. It was a shocking blue, and the sound of her quill grated Ron's ears as she scratched it over a sheet of yellow parchment.

"Hello," she said brightly. Her hair curled prettily over her shoulders. "You must be Mr Weasley. Mr Malfoy should be right in. I expect him presently."

The weekend felt long, but the slow minutes that followed felt strained and stretched and even longer. He didn't ask the blonde what she was doing at his desk, because he was fairly certain of the answer. He ignored the armchairs -- he refused to play the visitor in his own office, even if he now was one -- and he forced himself not to pace. He waited, listening as the clock ticked, and declined the blonde's over-solicitous offer of tea. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Muggle suit.

He closed his eyes; cracked tiles squeaked under his feet, and Malfoy was white and grey.

"Weasley." Malfoy lingered in the doorway, sparing the blonde a brief nod. Instead of suit he wore a deep green jumper and simple, slate-grey trousers.

"Malfoy."

"Brenda, I'm taking the day off," Malfoy said lightly. "I trust you'll behave in my absence."

"Absolutely, Mr Malfoy." Her smile was sweet, and Ron thought -- not without malice -- reminiscent of a house-elf.

"If you manage to get through the work I left you, speak with Cadawaller down the hall. He knows my agenda." Malfoy slipped out into the hallway. Ron didn't follow, out of what he hoped was stubbornness, until: "Weasley."

Malfoy was down the hallway a bit when Ron stepped out of the office. Ron didn't hurry, but Malfoy seemed to be waiting, flitting toward Regulation and Control like a twisted inter-office memo. Ron passed the photocopier; it rattled and whirred sadly. Fiona and Myrtle were already ensconced in their office, and the buzz of their morning conversation was muted and familiar. Malfoy disappeared around the corner. Cadawaller's door was closed.

Because of Malfoy's leisurely pace, Ron caught up with him just outside the door that led to the Spirit Division. Malfoy lingered over a framed sketch of a dementor, falling in step with Ron as Ron continued on.

"As you may have noticed, you also have the day off," Malfoy said.

"If you're sacking me, just say so," Ron replied quietly. "I'd rather just take my box and go."

"You're not being sacked," Malfoy said.

He pushed the button for the lift, and it jerked into view with the usual clangs and bangs. The grilles shuddered open; Malfoy stepped inside, and gestured for Ron to join him. Ron hesitated, but Malfoy reached out and pulled him inside by the sleeve. Malfoy studied the panel for a moment before pressing the button for level eight.

The grilles slid shut. Malfoy didn't kiss him, and Ron was mostly sure he didn't want him to.

"You're being transferred," Malfoy said suddenly.

"Where?" Ron asked.

Malfoy smiled. "Auror Headquarters. Effective tomorrow morning."

"Grand," Ron muttered.

"Level six. Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre."

The grilles shook open to admit a handful of inter-office memos. A young man clutching what was probably his new Apparation License appeared when the flock of paper cleared. He made an abortive motion for the lift; after glancing at Ron's stony face he wisely decided to wait for the next one.

"I thought you'd be pleased," Malfoy said shortly.

"Oh, I'm well thrilled," Ron ground out. "They won't let me work with them, but they'll bloody well let me work for them. What's the job, then? Filing their sodding paperwork?"

"I spoke with Moody yesterday afternoon by floo," Malfoy said. "He really is the most disturbing man, and not just for that eye. I half expected him to turn me into something unnatural."

"That wasn't him, you know, with the ferret," Ron said shortly.

"I know," Malfoy replied. "Doesn't mean I can just forget it happened." The lift lurched to a halt, depositing them in the Atrium. Malfoy caught his fingers in Ron's sleeve; he started threading his way through the crowd, and Ron was forced to follow. "Anyway, he's managed to talk the admissions board around. Your application for Auror training has been approved, pending you sit your NEWTs as soon as Hogwarts is able to have them."

"What?" Ron froze; Malfoy -- who was still clutching his sleeve -- was jerked to short and sudden stop.

"Moody expects you in at eight sharp," Malfoy continued smoothly, as if he didn't just bang into Ron and almost fall over. "You will have a brief orientation, followed by your first set of training exercises. Training is twelve hours a day, over the course of sixteen weeks, and during those sixteen weeks, you will eat and sleep in the training barracks, except on weekends. On weekends, you are allowed to do as you please, as long as you see fit to stay out of trouble. Moody bored me with an extensive lecture on what he considers trouble, and believe me, I mean to bore you with it, too. He also owled me a detailed list of the things you will need."

"Malfoy."

"I refuse to take responsibility now just because you're pleased," Malfoy said, just as he had the other night. "That means I'll have to take responsibility if you suddenly decide you're not. If you dislike it, or find it dreadfully boring, you'll blame me first."

Ron paused. This really was too much. "And I have the day off?"

"Moody insisted," Malfoy said. "He wanted you to have time to purchase the things on his bloody list. It's the usual fare: toiletries, clean pants, jolly boring textbooks, horribly naff pyjamas. I already sent out for the lot, over-night delivery. I expect most of it at my flat with tonight's owls."

"Your flat."

"Yes, my flat," Malfoy repeated. "Where I'm hoping we'll spend the rest of the day. I like drunken gropes in a public toilet as much as the next bloke, but I rather fancy a proper shag." His lip twitched at Ron's baffled expression. "If we get hungry, we can send out for something."

"Pizza?" Ron asked, smiling.

"Done."

"Fine."

Malfoy laughed. "Christ, you're easy."

"So I've been told," Ron replied. "Why? The transfer, I mean?"

"Because this isn't a bad Muggle film," Malfoy replied. "I refuse to be shagging my secretary."

"Assistant," Ron corrected. Malfoy's hand slid down his sleeve, catching his wrist. His fingers were warm. "Is this the one where we're getting it out of our system so we can get on with our lives?"

Malfoy's pause was slightly painful and -- Ron suspected -- mostly deliberate.

"Probably not," he drawled. "You're a much better kisser than Potter."

 

\---

 

"Did you see the paper Sunday?"

Frowning, Fiona set her tea aside. "Which paper? The Prophet?" She glanced at it over yesterday's breakfast, but the offered fare was not to her tastes. Apprehended Death Eaters, a Ministry press conference hosted so Ploughshot could announced the new Under-Secretary, goblins picketing outside the bank. The weekly coupons were unfortunate, and the Shopping section only boasted one decent sale. "The Quibbler?"

"Witch Weekly," Myrtle said, fiddling with her scone.

"No," Fiona said, sighing. "You nicked it right off, remember? Hogged the bloody thing all weekend, you did."

Myrtle produced it from under a stack of parchments and tossed it on Fiona's side of their collective desk. "Have a look at that, then."

"Cor," Fiona muttered. "Doesn't he look dreadful?"

"It's the freckles," Myrtle said. "Makes him look spotty in black and white."

"I heard he was transferred," Fiona said. "You know Finnigan from Games and Sports? And isn't he a bit of all right? Anyway, he filled me in on the lift up." She paused, scanning the page. "Snogging? You don't say."

"In the middle of Flourish and Blotts, no less," Myrtle said.

"I'm not surprised, really," Fiona said loftily. "I told you he was gay."


End file.
